Luz twists at one of her silver rings. “Bring back the warriors, bring back the Wars.”
Kip gives her a tight nod.
Nisai’s brow furrows. “I always knew Zostar was ambitious. But nobody rises from obscurity – or from disgrace – to become personal physician to the Emperor without cunning and intelligence. I simply can’t comprehend how any thinking person could wish to plunge us back into slaughter and chaos. Wanting power is one thing, but that implies there would be something or someone left to wield that power over.”
I close my eyes, inhale slowly through my nose, gathering myself to give a reply that sounds rational.
“My Prince.” Luz beats me to it. “If I may. To me this bears the hallmarks of divine ambition. It doesn’t have to be logical. Ancient scripture foretells of Doskai’s struggle to seize power by being the only one among his brethren left standing with worshippers. If this Zostar’s a true zealot, he doesn’t need there to be an Empire to rule over when the ashes stop burning, because he thinks by then he’ll have become one of the Lost God’s most favoured in a new regime. Copperlocks, you’re the history expert. Is that about the right of it?”
Ami’s eyes are wide, but she manages a nod.
Nisai massages his temples. “Most favoured of a god? Zostar is in his twilight turns, and as head of the Guild of Physicians, he must have had a wealth of knowledge before this. Could he truly believe that?”
“I’ve been face to face with him,” I say. “I wouldn’t put it past him to think he will be made new again by his god in return for his service. Made immortal, as he seemed to be testing to see if I was.”
Nisai’s eyes light up. “You’re immortal? I’ve always known you to heal quickly but … truly?”
“Of course I’m not immortal,” I snap, suddenly frustrated that he’s more fascinated with what I am than what I’ve been through to survive and make it back to him.
He reels as if I’d struck him, and I immediately regret the sting in my words. What is wrong with me? None of this is Nisai’s fault. He didn’t ask to be poisoned. Didn’t ask to have to flee the only home he knows because it’s become a nest of vipers who want him dead. He didn’t even ask to be heir.
Then the Aphorain guard shifts. Barden. He squeezes Nisai’s shoulder. You don’t simply touch the First Prince of the Empire. I want to slap his hand away, or twist it behind his back until he…
I give myself an inward shake.
Luz clears her throat. “All right, Copperlocks, what do you have for us?”
Ami looks up more than a little nervously. “It might be nothing.”
“Let us be the judge of that,” Nisai says gently.
“We know from the histories that at the end of the Shadow Wars each of the small kings pledged never to harness the Children of Doskai for another battlefield, yes?”
“That is the accepted version of things,” Luz agrees.
“But it was a full cycle, 125 turns, between then and the Founding Accord. A time of darkness and unrest. In many parts of the Empire, the crops failed. In other parts, there weren’t enough able-bodied left to harvest them. A high proportion of those who had survived the conflict succumbed to starvation. There wasn’t time or energy to spare on scholarship or history. People were just trying to survive.”
“Almost anything we know of that time,” Nisai picks up, “comes from spoken stories that weren’t committed to parchment until after the Empire was founded, and some of those accounts were revised again during the Great Bloom.”
“We have no accounts from anybody who actually lived to see what happened?”
“Precisely.”
“Still,” Ami continues, gesturing to the piles of scrolls on the table before her “even stories that have been handed down a hundred-fold usually have a kernel of truth at their core. And many of the stories talk about the provinces putting in place plans for the future. Safeguards, should they ever be caught in the same position again, neighbour declaring war on neighbour under the influence of the Lost God.”
Luz props her chin in her palm. “Safeguards? Is it possible our ancestors were simply indulging a flight of fancy?”
Ami unfurls a scroll, weighing it down at the corners. She gnaws at a fingernail. “When multiple sources speak of the same thing, I suspect corroboration over coincidence. If there’s anything the histories agree on, it’s that the shadow warriors, the wraith forms of the Children of Doskai, were untouchable by sword or spear. Arrows passed straight through. But the accounts say there was a weapon. Something that could combat them.”
I push back from the table and walk away several paces, then turn, jaw clenched. “Forgive me, my Prince.” My voice is strained, formal. “But why this talk of weapons? Why not concentrate on stopping those who share my curse from being used for ill in the first place? Those children are innocent. They need our help.”
“It’s not that simple,” Nisai says, eyes on his notebook.
“Seems straightforward to me.”
Luz holds up a hand. “Let’s say we can each bring ourselves to believe such a weapon exists, and that if Zostar works out how to raise a shadow army, we can be equipped to oppose him. Where might we find this weapon?”
“We’ll keep working on joining the dots,” Ami says as she unfurls a scroll and weighs it down in the corners. “Between Nisai’s personal research over the turns, and what I’ve gleaned from Es—” She stops still, staring down at the scroll for one, two, three slow blinks. Then she clears her throat. “From what I’ve gathered, we’ve been able to see a pattern. Of the sources that do talk of such a weapon, they hint at them being hidden beneath the ground in undisclosed locations. Closely guarded secrets through the generations.”
My posture is now entirely rigid. “And when you acquire this weapon, will I be the test case?”
The question hangs in the air. Ami shifts in her seat. Even Barden has the sense to look uncomfortable.
Rakel has been uncharacteristically quiet all this time. Now, she sits forward. “So, we’ve got a rogue Regent who wants to be Emperor so bad he might lay siege to his brother’s home city, who has teamed up with a doctor who is trying to create a magical doom army and, what, take over the entire Empire? Because said doctor may or may not be possessed by a god who thinks everything is his for the taking? And if that’s true, the only chance we have is finding some legendary weapon? Is that pretty much what you’re all saying?”
She looks at each of us in turn.
Nobody disagrees.
Rocking back in her chair, she lets out a long, low whistle.
“Well then,” Luz says, “my Prince, Copperlocks, may I suggest you continue narrowing down the possible locations for these ancient weapons? A little insurance never hurt anybody.”
Nisai inclines his head. Ami is already back to her reading.
“Petal,” she says to Rakel, who, to my surprise, doesn’t balk at the name. “I expect Yaita will appreciate your help. The Affliction doesn’t need curing any less because we’re staring into the abyss of a siege.”
“Lostras, Amber” – Luz points in turn to Kip and Barden – “you two fine specimens make friends with the temple guard officers. Put their people through their paces. You’re fresh blood, and we need to know if there’s any weak spots we need to address to make sure our imperial highness is safe during his stay. I don’t want security to be lax with all these distractions.”
“You.” She jabs her finger in my direction. “Help them out. Don’t make me regret bringing you along for the ride.”
Or you’ll finish the job you started back at the Library? I want to say. But I give her a grudging nod.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m overdue a meeting with a certain bureaucrat over the ill-considered commandeering of a certain perfumery.”
“Am I losing my senses,” I wonder aloud after Luz strides from the room, “or are we all just going to take orders from a perfumer-spy who, half a turn ago, none of us knew from a bar of soap? Wh
y in Kaismap’s far-seeing name would we do such a thing?”
Nisai folds his hands on the table and gives me one of his most sage expressions.
“Because she has the best ideas.”
CHAPTER 17
RAKEL
I work with Yaita through the night in Sephine’s laboratory.
Not long after dawn, I admit defeat, my eyes refusing to stay open. I’ll need at least a little sleep if I’m going to be able to concentrate.
Out in the temple halls, the aromas of siege preparations wafts from each room I pass. In one, acolytes cleanse cloth bandages in vats of vinegar. The astringent steam mixes with the sweet, warm smell from the next room, where honey from the temple’s many hives is being pressed from the comb, ready to seal wounds. Frankincense burns in the braziers, cleansing the air and bringing calm to the injured who will be brought here. In the final room I pass, sticks of dark and smoky labdanum incense are being laid beside stretchers, ready for offerings to Azered before the casualties are able to be taken to the roof of the temple and sent to the sky.
It’s almost overwhelming, but from the tales Father and his old comrades used to swap when they thought I was asleep as a child, I know it’s going to get much worse once there’s also the stench of blood and fear, burning flesh and loose bowels.
Escaping on to the first-level terrace, I look out over the gardens below. The breeze brings a kinder balm – vetiver and neroli, lavender and holy thyme, all warmed under the Aphorain sun.
I scrunch my eyes to slits while they get used to the glare. There. In the next garden over, between the lines of glossy-leaved bay trees, Ash and Barden face off in a training bout of the weaponless lo daiyish fighting style of Kip’s home province. The Losian circles the two, barking instructions and points of technique as a contingent of temple guards look on.
Good. Maybe doing something physical will help Ash feel more himself. Vent some of his frustrations in a controlled way.
The Prince looks on from a safe distance, his crutches propped against the stone bench beside him. Two firebirds tending the herbs in the next garden over have raised their heads to watch. Guess I would too, if the fact I’m having trouble tearing my eyes away is anything to go by.
Barden and Ash are of a height, and they’re both stripped to the waist, but that’s where the similarities end. Barden’s bulkier than Ash, barrel chest and heavily muscled shoulders gleaming a deeper copper brown. Ash is harder, more honed. Sharp angles and sinew, speed and coiled strength, the dappled shade making it seem like the ink of his tattoo moves and shifts across his tawny gold skin.
Just as the thought leaves, Barden charges his opponent. Ash catches his shoulder, and they stand, arms locked, struggling against each other, neither giving ground.
“Style, boys, style!” Kip bellows. “Brute strength is not your friend here.”
I suppress a grin. As if she’ll ever drill that into them.
Finally, they break apart, their sides heaving from the effort, and retreat to the edge of the training ground.
I wouldn’t mind staying to admire the view, but the sport isn’t going to make up for how tired I am. I’m about to head to my room when something flashes in the sun.
Swords? They brought swords with them? Actual metal, not wooden ones? What in a thousand stenches are they playing at? Even blunted, the blades can do some real damage.
“You can’t be serious!” I yell down at them.
But by the way Barden is giving ground – he’s always been much better with spear than sword – I can see they’re completely serious. The clash of swords ringing out around the compound speaks of deadly seriousness.
Kip throws up her arms and stalks back to stand by the Prince, making no effort to lower her voice as she curses colourfully enough to make the most seasoned soldier blush.
It’s a mild morning, but the breeze is cool, and the exertion of the fight has both opponents sweating, Barden’s hair plastered to his scalp.
“Feeling the strain, friend?” Ash taunts.
Barden’s too focused on Ash’s bladework to reply. Though he’s a lightning-quick flirt, he was never any good at pressing the mental advantage in a fight.
“Lost for words, for once?” Ash taunts, pressing his attack. “Not so smart at the sharp end of a sword, eh?”
Dull though the blades may be, I cringe every time they send a deep clang echoing around the temple garden’s stone walls.
“Suppose you’re relying on some other skills these days, eh?” Ash lunges, but it’s a feint.
Barden barely recovers in time.
Out the corner of my eye, something darkens like clouds passing in front of the sun. Only the sky is clear and blue. I’m imagining it. I must be. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t even know how. It’s only ever happened when he or someone he loved was threatened. When he …
… loses control.
“Ash!” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. Or he pretends not to.
I try another angle. “Barden, stop it! Surrender.”
But I know Barden too well. His competitive streak is sparked. This is beyond a training bout for him. The Prince is here, watching them, and Barden’s got something to prove. He won’t let up until he’s won. He’ll give it everything to show he’s the best.
Then I feel the shift as much as see it.
This time, it’s unmistakable. It sends my mind back to Ekasya, to the throne room when Ash…
And then in the temple, when I imbibed the Scent Keeper elixir to save Nisai…
Now, the shadows around the garden – from the sculptures of gods and goddesses, the leaves in the breeze and the dark lines of tree trunks – begin to waver like they’re water, the darkness ebbing and surging like smoke towards…
Ash.
He’s calling them to him. Does he feel it? Is he just trying to scare Barden into surrender?
Or is he losing himself? The last time I saw that happen, it was carnage.
No, no, no.
I have to stop this. Before Ash can’t bring himself back from the brink.
Before this goes too far.
I turn on my heel and sprint back towards the laboratory. Skidding through the door, I ignore Yaita’s surprised look and flip open the cover of my satchel. Jars and vials rattle as I rummage through them, hands trembling. There. Grabbing the vial of green-black liquid, I leave my bag and run back the other way, barely avoiding Luz as she walks in the opposite direction along the hall.
Out on the terrace, I scramble over the balcony and into the first bay tree, shimmying down the branch and dropping to the ground. I forget to roll. Pain jars up my legs, like my bones are trying to grind my knees to dust. I grit my teeth through a wince and hurry into the gardens.
My view is partially obscured by the trees. One moment I see a flit of Ash’s sword, the next it’s the deep bruise already blooming on Barden’s shoulder. There’s no sign that they’re letting up. Damn their stubbornness to every stinking one of the six hells.
I unstopper the vial of Sephine’s Scent Keeper elixir. It’s hard to force myself to breathe deep when I know how much it will burn, but I push through it, gasping, drawing the sickly-sweet fumes up into my nose and down into my lungs.
I can see them even more clearly now. The shadows swirl around Ash. If there were a colour darker than black, this would be it, the lines of his tattoos deepening like they’re absorbing all surrounding light.
Is this what happened last time, in the throne room? Before the winged lion tore free? Before it bathed the floor in the blood of so many palace guards. And the blood of Ash himself, the pool of red spreading out from his helpless body as the shadow beast took over.
I can’t let that happen here. I won’t let it happen.
“Ash, stand down!” Nisai shouts. His face is wan. Does he see it, too?
But Ash is no longer his Shield. There’s nothing about him here that says servant.
Instinct courses through me, telling me to keep my distance, to ret
reat. But I need to separate him and Barden. I remember how it felt with Nisai. Of drawing the shadow in the poison to me, both by force and by will. At the time it was alien. Strange, unfamiliar. Like I’d reached into another realm and was grasping at something not of this world.
This is different. I can feel Ash’s presence in the shadow. Somehow, I understand that it senses me, too. That it knows me.
If it’s anything like the poison, and if I can just get close enough, I can take some of it on. Absorb it like Sephine did. Maybe bring him to his senses.
I circle behind Ash. Barden has been pushed back to the edge of the grove. He’s so focused on Ash, I can’t even tell if he’s noticed my approach. He feints one way, then dives the other, dropping his sword and taking up a garden rake in one smooth motion. He tests the balance as if it’s a spear, his weapon of choice. The more familiar arm seems to rally him, and he pushes forward.
The shadow around Ash seethes. Something akin to smoke begins to rise from his tattoo. His lips pull back in a rictus snarl.
Barden’s rake doesn’t last long. It was never meant to stand up to anything but tilling soil and tidying leaves. The look of satisfaction on Ash’s face as it splinters is nothing short of chilling. He advances on Barden, the claws of the winged lion on the backs of his hand beginning to drip blood.
Several of the temple guards exchange glances, as if they’re wondering if they should intervene. Others look on with expressions of growing horror.
“Ashradinoran, cease and desist!” comes a shout from across the garden.
Maybe it’s the desperation in the Prince’s voice, maybe it’s the sound of his full name, but something makes Ash hesitate.
I take my chance.
I leap in and reach for the aura of darkness emerging from Ash’s shoulders. Rather than my hands passing through the smoke-like substance, they grasp it like it’s solid, sinking in. At my touch, as if it were a far greater force, Ash stumbles forward.
Barden seizes the moment, swinging the butt of the broken rake around, driving it into Ash’s stomach.
The shadows writhe around my hands, coiling up my wrists, my arms. It burns unbearably, white heat searing my skin until I expect to smell my flesh cooking. The darkness quivers, rippling like a desert mirage before sinking into me, soaking into every pore.
Crown of Smoke Page 20