She cut him off. “I’m fine. I’ve gone days without food or water before.”
“But you don’t have to, not if I have anything to say about it. I insist that you eat meals as they are brought in. Stay strong for all of us, and for her.”
Cemi felt a weight lift from her shoulders. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Someone has to, apparently. And it will help you take care of the empra.”
She took a sip of cool water, smiled at Vos. “When I first tried to sneak in and see the empra in Prirari, you did everything in your power to keep me away from her.”
The captani’s expression shifted to amusement. “It was my job. You climbed the walls and tried to break into her guest quarters. I had to consider you a threat.” He flushed with embarrassment. “And I failed to protect the empra.”
Cemi smiled at the memory. “I wanted to see if I could do it. I think our godling was watching over me that day.”
“You were fast and bold, but you shouldn’t have gotten through,” Vos said. “Iluris should have called for my execution, or at least dismissed me from service.”
“I’m glad she didn’t, because we sorely need you now.” Together, they looked down at Iluris. Outside, the prayers continued to swell, adding strength to the air. “I’m glad she didn’t,” she repeated in a whisper.
“I know I can trust you. Our mother placed so much faith in you.” Vos reached out to stroke the older woman’s smooth, dry cheek. “She wanted you to be a good empra, Cemi.”
The young woman glanced at the books of mathematics, political science, diplomacy, and trade summaries that Chamberlain Nerev had brought at her request. Cemi had so much time sitting here in the empra’s presence, she was determined to continue her instruction. That was what Iluris would want her to do.
A signal from the corridor alerted Captani Vos, as one of the guards issued a stern challenge to stop an approaching visitor. “Priestlord, what is your business here?”
“I am Ur-Priest Dono,” said a man’s nasal voice. “I have come to pray at the empra’s side and give her the godling’s blessing.”
Vos went to the chamber door.
The hawk guards glanced at the captani, and Vos stepped forward to take charge. “Isn’t the godling powerful enough to see her from the temple? Can it not extend its power and bless our mother from where it lives?”
“It would be more effective if I directed the godling’s attentions,” Dono said. “That is what priestlords do.”
“But that is not what you will do today,” Vos said. “The empra is in danger, and the hawk guards must protect her from any threats.”
“Threats? I come to pray for her. How can that be a threat?”
“We cannot be too careful. If we had been more suspicious on Fulcor Island, then Empra Iluris would not now lie injured.” Vos’s voice became grating. “We do not know who might be a Commonwealth sympathizer, a spy come to finish the assassination. They have many tricks.”
As Ur-Priest Dono expressed his outrage, the hawk guards closed in and prevented him from catching even a glimpse of the empra on her bed. After a tense moment, the priestlord turned about and retreated down the corridor.
* * *
The construction site of the Magnifica temple left much to the imagination, and Key Priestlord Klovus had tremendous imagination. He had needed a catalyst for more than two decades, and he had wasted no time after returning from Fulcor Island. In light of the unconscious empra, when he issued his confident command for the temple work to proceed, no one pushed back.
For years Iluris had blocked him at every turn, and now she couldn’t speak out against him. Her chamberlain, her advisors, and the young girl she had taken as her ward had not rallied to push back against him now in this time of crisis. To a frightened, angry people, the key priestlord’s orders made perfect sense.
On Fulcor Island, Klovus had directed his Black Eel assassins to kill the empra and make it appear as if the konag’s Brava had done the deed. Something had gone wrong, which still baffled Klovus—how could one woman, even an iron-willed empra, stand against a Black Eel? Zaha, the leader of his assassins, had told a wild story of a mysterious invisible force that had intervened to save Iluris, which made no sense.
Perhaps all was for the best, though. Even comatose, the empra served his purposes. With no other clear leader of the land, Klovus could command that his pronouncements be followed. The ambitious work on the Magnifica was a perfect example.
Priestlords from the city and the surrounding districts answered his call, and labor crews were starting work already. The site had been cleared decades ago, when Klovus’s predecessor announced the original grandiose design of a construction so vast it would concentrate unimaginable power here in Serepol. Emprir Daka had agreed.
But the war against the godless Commonwealth had stalled construction, with all resources diverted to the defense of the land. After Daka’s death, the new Empra Iluris called a halt to all construction, concerned that the Magnifica would vest too much power in a single godling. Her stubbornness had frustrated Key Priestlord Klovus for years. But now she could not stop him.
Standing at the edge of the huge open plaza, Klovus marveled at the expanse of the foundation alone. He folded his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his caftan and felt an air of importance rippling from him like a godling’s strength. He inhaled deeply and exhaled pure satisfaction.
Because the Magnifica would be so enormous, the foundation went deep beneath the streets to a full labyrinth beneath the city. The priestlords had continued their construction out of sight over the quiet decades. But a godling deserved praise and needed extravagance to make it stronger. A godling’s sheer power was dependent upon the faith of its people.
Soon—maybe in only a handful of years, if the workers devoted themselves properly—this entire plaza would be dominated by a stepped pyramid that rose even higher than the palace. That was fitting, because the primary godling was more important than any human ruler.
Part of the temple’s second level over the base foundation had been constructed over the years, but much of the open expanse still held only temporary structures, stands, altars, and blood-offering receptacles. Ornate statues had been placed at strategic points where titans would one day stand, anchor points for the beliefs of the faithful.
Klovus stood at the northeastern corner of the square, looking down at the detailed scale model of the temple on display. It was an embodiment of his dreams. The model stood five feet high and eight on a side, showing the stairsteps of the gigantic pyramid, each layer reserved for certain types of worshippers. The walls and steps would be emblazoned with carvings and mural paintings, gold sculptures embellished with jewels. The model alone was a work of art, and Klovus imagined that the completed Magnifica would be almost too grand for mere human eyes to behold.
At his command, valuable materials were confiscated from construction sites across Serepol: slabs of stone, structural timbers, bricks, mortar, iron, and steel—anything the city had on hand. As word spread, eager work crews raced to Serepol from the thirteen districts of Ishara. The quarries of Rassah and Ishiki sent wagonloads of granite and sandstone blocks. The hardwood forests of Janhari provided endless logs. Clay from the riverbanks in Mormosa and Salimbul would be used to make bricks.
Everyone would provide, because everyone believed. Isharans knew the potential of their godlings, even if their empra had grave reservations. Klovus himself fed upon the people and their faith, drank in their open worship, which was fuel to the fire of the godlings.
It annoyed him, though, that so many devotees now prayed so earnestly for Empra Iluris. She had been the single most frustrating impediment to Ishara’s growth! At least now she could cause no further delays.
At several sacrifice stations around the construction site, priestlords rang bells and called for volunteers. “All your sacrifices!” a voice boomed out. “We take all your sacrifices. Feed the godling. Make us strong!”
The devout approached, some carrying jars or urns, others with sacks of gold, keepsakes, even food offerings, but the most powerful and simplest sacrifices occurred at the blood receptacles, where priests stood with sharpened knives to slash bared arms or open palms, spilling the life fluid down below to strengthen the godling.
“Hear us, save us!” they chanted.
“Hear us, save us,” Klovus responded and smiled. He could picture the Magnifica, complete and breathtaking. Soon. “Hear us, save us.”
14
THE brown leather was soft but strong, and Glik knew it would be thick enough to blunt a sword blow. She sewed a second layer on the breastplate she was assembling. Her needle was dull, but she pushed hard, using a wooden thimble. The needle pierced the leather and slipped out the other side. She pulled the thick thread and tugged the stitch tight, then shoved the needle back through again. The stitches made the breastplate leather look like a patchwork scar sewn up by a battlefield surgeon.
Glik didn’t know where the leather came from, nor did she dare ask. She quelled her thoughts, kept working. Whenever possible, she palmed small scraps of leather, hiding them among the folds of her clothes. The young girl never missed an opportunity to snatch resources that might be useful at some point. She never knew what small thing might be the key to escape and survival.
Glik paused to draw a circle around her heart with a quick subconscious gesture. She got through each day with the slow tedium of a quiet trance, but no new visions had come to her in two days. Even though Ari’s unexpected images had terrified her dreams in the past, she missed them.
Mage Ivun prowled through the camp, without seeming to see anything. The steady rhythm of work being completed convinced him that all was well. Many of the prisoners felt weak, eaten up by their own terror, but Glik did not let herself feel the despair. She would find a way out of this.
Her fingers poked the sturdy needle through the leather, worked the thread down into a seam, pulled back up to complete another stitch. The leather breastplate was slowly coming together. Whoever wore it would likely die on some pointless battlefield.
A few of the stronger captives donned the armor, heavy gauntlets, and leggings so they could be trained in combat. The sandwreths wanted to fashion their captives into a viable army, though Glik didn’t know who the enemy was or why slaves would throw down their lives for their captors. Forced to drill, the human fighters practiced without enthusiasm, battering one another with blunted swords.
Glik paid particular attention to a group of captive fighters, actual Bravas, half-breed descendants of wreths and humans. She wondered if they felt any different toward the sandwreths than she did. The eight Bravas were intrinsically stronger than the other captives, able to endure hardships better than most. One Brava woman with a long, oval face and short brown hair trained with unexpected dedication. Glik watched her swordplay against two Brava men who fought back with equal verve.
Though the Bravas seemed to have no interest in satisfying the wreths, they threw themselves into the training exercises and even seemed to enjoy the fighting.
After a while, the Bravas paired off, working themselves into a sweat in the hot desert air. They struck blade against blade, bashing shields to throw their opponents off balance, and then clashed again.
After observing the Bravas with a critical eye, the aloof sandwreth guards pulled their bone swords and long copper spears. The guards waded into the fray laughing, as if this were a mere frolic, and the Brava captives were just as happy to fight them.
“You gave us real blades to train with,” said the lone Brava woman. “Now we can test you.” She slammed her sword against a copper spear, forcing the wreth man to stagger back, startled, before he came at her with redoubled fury.
“We gave you real blades because you are no threat,” he retorted.
All eight Bravas joined forces, and in a dramatic clash of blades and a crack of wood against bone, they retaliated against their enemy. “Give us our ramers back,” challenged a Brava, “and we’ll show you how we fight.”
The wreth warriors snorted. “Mage Ivun keeps your strange weapons locked away. Once you prove yourselves with swords, perhaps we’ll let you play with your fiery bands.”
The Brava woman struck a guard in the face with the flat of her blade. The unexpected blow snapped his head to one side and left an angry red mark on his bronze skin. In fury, he turned his full attack against her and unleashed a burst of wreth magic that even the Brava couldn’t withstand. The blow bowled the woman back into the dust.
The wreth leaped at her and raised his spear for a killing blow, but one of his companions knocked him aside with a grunt. The woman sprang back to her feet, shifted her grip on her sword, and faced them, ready to keep sparring.
The humiliated guard managed to control himself. He issued orders to the Brava captives. “Teach yourselves to fight better, and then teach the other humans to fight, too. Maybe you will earn our respect.”
“I don’t need your respect,” the woman retorted. “I have my own.”
The metallic sound of a copper gong resounded through the canyon. The prisoners gathered for their midday meal of dried strips of meat and a bowl that contained a paste of beans and grain. It was enough to keep them alive. Glik had survived on meager rations before. She had collected spare scraps whenever she saw the opportunity, squirreled the food away in case she needed it later. She always had to be ready.
She knew many of the prisoners by now, although each person was isolated and separate. Even before her capture, the orphan girl had spent much of her life wandering outside the circle. Few people were likely to notice she had gone missing. At least Ari had escaped.…
Taking her food, Glik impulsively squatted on a rock next to the Brava woman, who glanced at her, then went back to silent eating. The tall woman had not bothered to tend her bruises and cuts. Apparently Bravas healed swiftly.
“My name is Glik. From the Utauk tribes.”
“I can see where you’re from.” After a long pause, she added, “I’m Cheth.”
“Why train with the wreths? Because you’re half-breeds?”
Cheth glowered. “My people have wreth blood in our veins because wreths raped my ancestors.”
“Then why do you fight for them?”
“I don’t fight for them, girl! I fight because that’s what a Brava does. I fight because by doing so I maintain my skill, and someday I will turn that skill against them. They are fools to let us train right in front of them.”
“Those three guards were beating all of you,” Glik pointed out.
“We allowed them a false sense of confidence for next time.”
“Hard to believe,” Glik snickered. Cheth merely shrugged.
“If Bravas are great fighters, how did they capture all of you?”
Cheth was reserved, chewing on her gruel. “With great difficulty. We had twelve Bravas, and four of us died. So did two of their warriors.”
“Cra, sounds like you need a lot more Bravas.”
As if dismayed by the idea, Cheth placed a hand on her abdomen. “That is our problem. We breed and try to maintain our numbers, though we are not always successful.” Her green eyes stared into the distance as if she could see right through the canyon walls.
“Will you train me how to fight? You’re supposed to train humans, aren’t you?”
The woman stared at her for a calculating moment. “You look scrappy enough.”
“I am.” Glik drew a circle over her heart. “Won’t fight for the wreths, though.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want you to.”
They finished their meal together as sandwreth patrols moved up and down the canyons, overseeing the scattered slave crews, rounding up workers. The wreths relished the afternoon heat, but the captives grew more sluggish, needing additional water.
Ivun strode to a crack in the red slickrock wall and used his bare hands to spread open the stone as if splitting the rind of a f
ruit. He stepped back and cool water bubbled out, summoned from a spring deep underground. The captives came forward to drink, then were sent back to work. The Bravas returned to fighting practice.
Glik went back to sewing leather armor, but she observed how the Bravas moved as they fought. She glanced up at the sky and felt sudden joy when she spotted black specks dancing in the air high above.
For a moment, she thought Ari had returned, but she felt no familiar tug on her heart link. Although these were just wild skas, the reptile birds gave Glik a sense of peace nonetheless, a glimmer of bright hope.
The wreths spotted the skas as well and jabbed their pointed spears upward in impotent threat. For a moment, Glik was surprised by the guards’ frustration. Then she understood. While she had been staring at the sky longing to see skas, it seemed the wreths were watching out for dragons.
15
HALE Orr presented the Utauk man to Adan and Penda in their royal quarters. On the stand, the two skas flapped their wings hoping for attention. Penda rested in a leather chair with a cushion behind her back.
King Adan rose from the desk to greet the visitor. “Who is this, Father?” He faltered as soon as he spoke the offhand familiar term. Hale Orr always beamed when his son-in-law called him that, but now the word served as a painful reminder that Adan’s real father was dead.
Hale nudged the guest deeper into the room. The long-haired Utauk was in his mid-forties, lean, with a scant, scruffy beard, wearing clan colors of green and tan. “This is Donnan Rah, the perfect courier to take Queen Voo’s message to the konag. Rah has my highest recommendation. Let me tell—”
Penda interrupted him. “The man can speak for himself, Father.”
“Indeed, I can.” With one finger, Donnan Rah drew a circle on his chest. “I’ve crossed the three kingdoms several times, both in large caravans and small parties, but I prefer to ride alone. I travel light and unseen. I can leave right away, and I’ll reach Osterra in less than a week.”
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