Ara saw the moss elk first. It walked toward them with stilted steps. When the elk lifted its head to make its whistling call, Ara thought she would be sick.
The elk’s throat had been ripped open. Shreds of fur and flesh hung down, slapping against its legs as it walked. Another elk appeared alongside the first. Its back was broken, spine split by a deep, bloody gash, and yet it came forward, rear legs dragging behind.
“This cannot be.” Joar stared at the animals. He bowed his head, and Ara saw his body was shaking. “It must not be.”
Nimhea was on her feet. She put herself between the encroaching beasts and Lahvja, who sat rigid, gazing out into the fog.
Ara pushed herself up on legs that didn’t want to stand. Teth slowly rose. He had Tears of the Traitor, bow and quiver, in each hand. Joar remained on his knees.
More creatures materialized in the wavering yellow light. Ara saw snakes that had been sliced apart slithering along the perimeter of the camp. Some were missing tails, others heads. A great jungle cat with striped fur, stalking back and forth. The fur and flesh of its face had been burned away, and the empty sockets of its eyes stared balefully at Ara. Monkeys missing limbs, drenched in blood, or charred to the bone scampered by, hooting and screeching. Wild dogs roamed in a pack whose members had been reduced to skeletons.
The animals were so close now that a wave of stench swept over the camp. Ara began to cough, then gag. She leaned against Ironbranch to keep herself upright. The smell was like that of the pond water, but immeasurably worse. A miasma of rot and ruin. The acrid odor of burnt fur and smoking flesh. The sickening sweetness of decay.
Ara could no longer discern one animal’s call from another’s. Their cries had become a wall of moans that rose and fell like the swells of the ocean. They pressed closer and closer.
Something bumped against Ara and she yelped, but it was only Teth. Backing away from the circling beasts, they’d run into each other. Turning further, Ara saw they were almost on top of Joar. Lahvja had crawled to the hunter. She held his hands, and her head was pressed against his. Nimhea stood guard over them, her back to Teth and Ara.
The animals continued to circle the tents. The birds swooped low enough that Ara felt the rush of air from their wings. Any creature that still had eyes fixed their gazes upon the tight group of humans. The reek of death saturated the air.
Beside Ara, Teth bent over, retching. He straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then, after slinging the quiver over his shoulder, he drew an arrow and notched.
All at once the animals screamed. The sound was like a physical blow. Ara stumbled, almost losing her grip on Ironbranch.
Teth swore, steadying himself so he could take aim.
“Ready?” he called.
Nimhea shouted back. “Ready!”
Her sword gleamed in the sickly yellow fog.
The elk whose throat hung open, dripping gore, snorted, lowering his head and brandishing the many spikes of his antlers.
Ara watched as Teth pointed his arrow at the elk’s bowed head.
The impossibility of what was about to happen sent a shock through her limbs. There was no way that elk could be alive. What was the point of killing something that was already dead?
“Teth, wait—” Ara caught the twitch of his hand, and she was almost too late. But not quite.
She grabbed Tears of the Traitor, forcing the bow down. The arrow thunked into the earth.
“Ara, what the—”
She heard Teth’s shout, but she looked at the elk. It had reared up, striking the air with its hooves, and uttered a wet, choking bellow. But it didn’t charge.
Teth seized her arm. “What was that?”
“We can’t kill them.” Ara leaned close, making sure he could hear her over the din of animal cries. “They’re already dead. How can we kill them?”
He drew back, shaking his head. “Then what are we supposed to do?”
Ara stared at him. She didn’t have an answer.
“Lay your weapons down.” Joar’s voice boomed like thunder.
The big man looked at Ara. “Your instinct was right, Loresmith. In this place our blades and bows turn against us.”
“Are you sure about this?” Teth asked, his voice tight with nerves. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re surrounded.”
Joar’s answering smile was a shock, considering their predicament. “Lay down your bow, Loreknight, and join hands with your fellows.”
As he spoke, Ara noticed that Lahvja had risen and stood beside Nimhea. The princess had sheathed her sword, and she’d taken Lahvja’s hand. The summoner took one of Joar’s hands. Joar reached out to Teth, and Ara accepted Nimhea’s outstretched hand.
Ara turned to Teth. He looked down at her hand. She watched as his fingers reluctantly touched hers. That light caress stole Ara’s breath and wrenched her heart. She closed her eyes against tears that suddenly wanted to come. When he folded her hand in his, she swallowed a sob. Her eyes were shut tight, and she was afraid to open them.
Roars, snarls, screeches, barks pounded her ears. Louder. Louder.
But then another sound joined the awful chorus. A different sound.
Low and sonorous, the new noise rumbled steadily against the chaos of the animals’ cries.
Ara listened to the deep, rolling pitch, her ears following as it rose and fell. It took several minutes, but she began to recognize that it was a song.
Daring to open her eyes, Ara looked around the circle of her friends and saw Joar’s lips moving. His eyes were closed, but his face lifted. Tears slid from beneath his eyelids, trailing down his cheeks and jaw before dropping to the ground.
Joar sang in a language Ara couldn’t understand, but she had no trouble discerning the emotion behind his song. It was a dirge, slow and mournful. Each note bore the weight of terrible grief, a sorrow unending. The song was beautiful, yet unbearable in its sadness.
The tears that had been born of her own grief about Teth now fell because of Joar’s song.
Ara wasn’t the only one who cried. The faces of her friends were streaked with salt water. Teth’s grip on her hand tightened. She responded by lacing her fingers through his.
Joar’s lament filled the night, rising through the fog. Ara was so consumed by the heartrending melody that she barely noticed the fading of the animals’ cries, nor did she realize the yellow fog was slowly dissolving until darkness covered the earth once again.
Only when Joar sounded the song’s final note and the echo of his voice faded, rendering the night silent, did Ara come out of her reverie.
The animals were gone, leaving no sign that they’d ever existed.
18
Liran stood outside the cell, staring at the boy who sat on a cot within. The boy stared back at him.
When Liran had pressed Zenar on his precise plans for bringing their father’s reign to an end, his brother had demurred. His answer was simply “In time, in time,” which was no answer at all. Zenar had, Liran surmised, revealed more than he’d intended in that meeting and regretted his words. Zenar was quick, too quick, to acquiesce to Liran’s request to interview Prince Eamon on his own.
“Who are you?” Prince Eamon asked, and Liran realized he’d been watching the boy without speaking for an unusual amount of time.
He’d been thrown by how very young Eamon appeared. Younger than his eighteen years. A boy rather than a man, who could not have fully grasped the treachery Zenar had demanded of him. But perhaps his innocence had been what made the boy susceptible to Zenar’s promises in the first place. His expression was earnest, and surprisingly unafraid.
“Liran, Commander of the Imperial Armies,” Liran said.
“ArchWizard Zenar’s brother.” Eamon’s eyes widened, making him appear even more childlike. “The Dark Star.”
Liran frowned. I
t irked him to be first known by association to his younger brother, but it was the title Eamon gave him, “the Dark Star,” that made Liran’s skin prickle. He carried many titles, and had always regarded them like unnecessary and garish jewelry, but Eamon spoke the words as if they held significance Liran couldn’t begin to comprehend.
Rolling his shoulders back, Liran began to pace in front of the cell. He found looking directly at the boy too unsettling.
“You claim to be Prince Eamon,” he said. “Son of Dentroth and sister to Nimhea, Dentroth’s heir.”
“I am Eamon.” The boy rose. “Why would I lie about that?”
Liran shrugged. “To gain Zenar’s favor of course, or perhaps in the hope of some reward. There’s no real proof you are who you say you are.”
Eamon stared at him in disbelief. “But I brought Ofrit’s scroll. I’ve been in touch with the wizards all through our journey.” He paused, choking on the words. “I abandoned my sister.”
Interesting. The young prince didn’t hesitate before confessing the full nature of his relationship to Zenar. He could just as easily have remained silent or derided the princess for her design to reclaim the River Throne and cast the empire out of Saetlund.
“And that tells me what precisely?” Liran waved a dismissive hand, making a show of arrogance he didn’t actually feel. “Fifteen years have passed since the conquest, and our scholars are still finding hidden rooms and secret caches in the libraries of Zyre and Isar. I’m certain scrolls such as the one you brought the ArchWizard have found their way into the hands of underworld operators. You’re no more than an urchin from Sola, hoping to better your fortune through deceit.”
Eamon’s hands balled into fists, and outrage flashed through his eyes. “I am no urchin.”
At that Liran smiled. He had the pride of the prince if not the bearing or confidence.
“Let’s pretend for a moment that I believe you,” Liran said. “Why would a prince of Saetlund ally himself with the ArchWizard of Vokk?”
The anger bled out of Eamon’s gaze. “Surely Zenar will have told you.”
So this was a topic the boy wanted to avoid. He was proud of his identity, but not of his actions.
“I’d like to hear what you have to say,” Liran told him.
Eamon dropped back onto the cot in his cell and stared at the floor. Liran watched with growing curiosity. Not only was the boy uncomfortable with the choices he’d made, he appeared to be ashamed of them. Perhaps even to regret them.
The young prince mumbled something that Liran couldn’t make out.
“Say that again.”
Eamon raised his face, and there Liran saw not a hint but a world of pain. The boy didn’t try to hide any of it. His expression was completely open and completely broken.
“I didn’t think we could win.”
“If you didn’t think you could win, why bother coming to Saetlund at all?” Liran asked.
“To protect Nimhea,” Eamon blurted, his cheeks reddening. “And to help myself.”
“Help yourself how?”
Eamon shifted his weight. “I’ve always been ill. Weak. No healers could help me . . . but I thought magic could.”
Liran regarded the boy thoughtfully. “And the wizards of Vokk wield the most powerful magics in the world.”
Eamon began to nod, but then frowned. “I used to believe that.”
“You don’t any longer?” The admission surprised Liran.
The boy was looking at Liran without seeing him. His mind had gone somewhere distant.
“I’ve seen legends come to life.” Eamon spoke quietly. “And I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Liran was finding it hard to make sense of the prince. There had been no pleading or cajoling, no demands to know what fate had been decided for him. Eamon simply appeared to be resigned, but resigned to what Liran couldn’t fathom.
“May I ask you a question?” Eamon’s voice was so polite, Liran almost laughed.
“You may.”
“What is happening to the children?”
An icy fist slammed into Liran’s chest, but he managed not to visibly react to the question. When he remained silent, Eamon’s brow knit together.
“I watch them file past.” His gaze moved to the descending spiral steps. “They go down but never come back up.” He shivered. “Sometimes at night I hear them.”
Looking at Liran intently, he asked, “Why are they here?”
“I cannot tell you,” Liran answered stiffly.
It was the truth. Liran knew nothing of children in the Temple of Vokk.
As commander of the imperial armies, Liran was all too familiar with the Embrace. The empire’s practice of gathering the children of a conquered nation and shipping them to Vokk in order to “enfold them in the empire” had been established long before Liran’s time. However effective the Embrace was at cowing populations, it was also costly in how far it went toward stoking resentment and rebellion in conquered peoples.
Liran had created an extensive proposal for his father, articulating the logic of discontinuing the Embrace for the sake of the empire’s survival, but his ideas had been summarily rejected. When he asked for explanation, his father’s only reply had been: “We need the children. We will always need the children.”
And so the Embrace had continued with each new conquest. But Saetlund’s Embrace had occurred over a decade ago. There was no reason for children to be imprisoned in the Temple of Vokk.
Whatever was taking place, Zenar had been careful to keep him from knowing.
They go down but never come back up.
Those words would haunt him until he understood their meaning. He suspected they still might after he learned the truth of what Zenar hid in the temple’s bowels.
He considered pressing Eamon for more information, but didn’t want to risk revealing his own ignorance on the matter. He also couldn’t deny the spike of guilt he felt at knowing nothing about children being stolen and made to suffer under his watch. He should have been keeping a closer eye on Zenar’s activities.
“Until next time.” Liran turned away from Eamon and quickly climbed the stairs.
What is Zenar up to? Whose children are being marched past Eamon’s cell?
Liran’s gut told him he wouldn’t get the answers he needed by confronting his brother. No, this was a mystery he’d have to unravel himself, all while ignoring the cold dread of what he might find.
He had planned to return to the war offices, but was intercepted by a servant with a summons from Zenar.
Entering the ArchWizard’s office, Liran felt a fresh wave of revulsion. He’d been in this place far too often of late.
“Commander!” Zenar sat behind his desk, waving his brother into the room. “Thank you for joining us.”
Us?
It was then Liran noticed that one of the chairs facing Zenar’s desk was occupied by a bald, long-nosed man whose form strained against his finely tailored clothes like a sausage against its casing. The man had pale skin, a pencil of a black mustache, and wide, slack lips. His face bore a sheen of sweat despite the cool temperature of the room.
Zenar gestured to the other chair, but Liran opted to stand. Whatever this meeting was, he hoped it would be brief. If his body language could help make that happen, all the better.
Speaking to the stranger, Zenar said, “May I introduce my brother, Commander Liran. Commander, this is Fergin, the Low King of Kelden.”
Liran kept his face neutral, but was surprised to learn the man’s identity. He knew of the Low Kings—sometime leaders of the criminal elements of society—but dealings with them fell under the purview of the Office of Commerce. Liran bore no illusions about the corruption that fueled imperial financial dealings, and it was nothing to concern him.
“His Majesty”—Zenar only just kep
t the sneer out of his voice—“was recommended to me by Chancellor Pilth. A situation has developed that could be to our great advantage. In order to exploit it, I will require your assistance.”
Liran briefly inclined his head to indicate interest.
“Fergin.” Zenar gestured for the man to speak.
“Lord Commander.” Fergin stared at Liran with black, bulging eyes. “I’s here as a loyal servant of Emperor Fauld. I been true to my contracts fro’ the very first. Ne’er skimming more than a bit—ya see, I has to take a bit else my men’ll think I’s soft—and only runnin’ a few side deals, for the same reason—”
“Fergin.” Zenar’s cutting tone hurried the man to the point.
“Apologies, Your Lord Wizardship,” Fergin babbled. “The other kings and queens, ya see, they’s always too big for their britches. They’s thinking they can outdo the empire. Fools they are, hearin’ mad tales and then making mad deals.”
Liran cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”
“Of course, of course.” Spittle gathered in the corners of the man’s mouth as he spoke. “Ya see, the worst of the lot. King Lucket of Fjeri. Thinks he’s so fine. He fancies himself the leader of us Low Kings, even though we’s supposed to be equals. Great priggy lout that one, as if Fjeri isn’t all brutes and bear shaggers.”
“How colorful,” Zenar murmured.
“It’s no better than Kelden,” Fergin said sourly. “Fruit an’ fine horses we have. Fruit an’ fine horses!”
“You were saying about King Lucket?” Liran prompted.
“Oh, that fiend Lucket!” Fergin spat on the rug, then froze, looking at Zenar in horror.
“It’s nothing.” Zenar smiled at him, then when Fergin looked about to blubber his thanks, quickly said, “Tell my brother about the alliance.”
Fergin’s pale face went beet red. “Alliance! It’s our ruin. Lucket’s goin’ to bring the wrath of Fauld down on all of us, the fool. His fine words and clever talk got the other kings and queens wrapped around his finger. Help the rebellion, bah! Lost princess, rubbish!”
“Help the rebellion.” Liran was suddenly very interested in what this man had to say. “What do you mean?”
Cast in Secrets and Shadow Page 20