Blood of the Emperor (38 page)

She cried out in rage. She needed help and she could only think of one name that had any experience with the human magic. He could free her from this curse. He could take away her guilt.

She needed Soen.

She rushed across the ruins of the plaza. The ground was carpeted with the dead. She could hear the insane wailing beyond the curtain of smoke and could only hope she did not encounter anyone in her flight to the door of Serenity House.

The avatria was missing entirely but the façade remained largely intact. She pushed through the bent gates, feeling her way around the left-hand corridor. She tripped over someone who groaned in the darkness, and she tensed in fear but continued to move past.

She found most of the kitchen intact. She sped through the kitchen and into the pantry beyond. She fumbled for a moment, trying to trip the release but she found it at last. The hidden panel swung open and she ducked inside.

There, in repose, stood Soen Tjen-rei with a ball of light illuminating the chamber from where it floated in the center of the room. He appeared the same as when she had captured him. He stood in his weathered and faded robes, his Matei staff gripped in his hands.

K’yeran hesitated for a moment, staring in wonder at the globe of light glowing overhead. It was the most common of spells cast with Aether but to see any magic after it had failed so completely was shocking to her.

She took a breath and stood back. Her own Matei staff, still clutched in her hand, was useless now as Soen’s had been.

“Did you really need to capture me?” Soen asked quietly. “That was hardly worthy of you, K’yeran. So I am back at the Keep, am I?”

“No, you are in Tjarlas…”

“Tjarlas?” Soen snapped and then looked up, noticing the wailing, distant sounds. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”

“You have to help me,” K’yeran said, rushing forward, the desperation raw and open on her face. “The Well has fallen and much of the city with it. The Devotions have failed and…and they’ve done something to me. They’ve cursed me with their magic and you’re the only one that can undo this!”

Soen looked at her in silent contemplation.

“Soen, I meant something to you once!” K’yeran pleaded.
I’ve never begged in my life!
“And…and you meant something to me, too. Please! You’ve got to take this curse off of me. I hate who I am…everything I’ve done…you’ve got to take this away from me!”

Soen spoke quietly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” K’yeran blinked, the despair threatened again to engulf her. “Or you
won’t
?”

“You haven’t been cursed—at least, not by human magic,” Soen said. “I cannot take this away from you because this is who you are and who you have been. This isn’t magic, K’yeran. This is something else…and I’m going to help you find out what it is.”

“Why?” K’yeran asked. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because if we cannot find the answer,” Soen said. “It may mean the end of everything for us all.”

Between Evils

“L
ORD DRAKIS,” BELAG ANNOUNCED, his leonine face lifted in an expression that Drakis could only interpret as smug. “I beg leave to present before your council Gragh-Krigan, King of the Chaenandrian Prides!”

Drakis tried to wave in acknowledgment but he could not stop his hand from shaking, so he merely nodded.

He sat at the focal point of a large, if hastily erected canvas pavilion on the steppes east of the still burning Tjarlas. It had been three days since the city had fallen to them and the fires had continued unabated. He specifically asked that the Prophet’s Guardians set the presumptuous chair with its back toward Tjarlas. Tsojai Acheran and most of the other members of the Council of the Prophet believed that Drakis’ choice for the position of his victor’s throne was a savvy political move designed so that all who approached him would be forced to observe also the city in the distance behind him and thereby be reminded of his power and evident destiny.

Drakis alone knew the true reason he had insisted the chair be placed in that position.

He could not stand to look upon the burning, fallen city.

Instead, he sat on this ridiculous throne feeling utterly and frighteningly alone with his pain in the midst of a mob.

Urulani stood next to him, her dark-hued face also looking over
the assembly. She eschewed her dragon-rider coat in favor of the leather vest and sleeveless homespun shirt she had worn when Drakis first saw her in Vestasia. She had remained next to Drakis at every meeting of the council since they had returned on the back of Marush from the horror of the skies over Tjarlas. The smooth skin of her arm, dark as midnight, hung within inches of Drakis’ hand but he could not bring himself to reach out to her. He feared what she might have to say to him, believing he was deserving of her reproach.

The Council of the Prophet was arrayed on either side of a large carpet laid lengthwise before his throne. Tsojai Acheran, the elf on the council, and the female goblin called Doroganda were both beaming in their delight at the victory. Ethis sat on the opposite side of the carpet from them, looking impassive, the most common expression among his race of shapeshifters. Jugar sat next to the chimerian, still in his padded flying coat that now showed considerable wear and damage. The dwarf and his dragon had been closer to the center of the Well’s destruction than anyone. The dragon, it appeared, was now somewhat deaf from the experience and Jugar…

Drakis frowned. There was something different about Jugar that he could not quite comprehend. The dwarf was quieter than he remembered and, most unnaturally, reticent to talk. Drakis had tried several times over the days since Tjarlas fell to speak with Jugar. Drakis had hoped to unburden himself as much as help the dwarf, but Jugar had turned away with some excuse or other. He found himself longing for the days not long past when he could not get the dwarf to keep silent for more than a breath at a time.

Drakis sat in the midst of an army singing his praises, surrounded by councillors ready—no, more than ready,
demanding
to follow him into death—and faced a parade of dignitaries all espousing their allegiance to Drakis and his victorious cause.

Here, in the midst of all this adoration, Drakis felt alone in his grief.

He had been haunted by the ghost of Mala since she had left him among the lost citadels of Drakosia to go to her death but that burden was now overwhelmed by the cries of Tjarlas rising up from within the walls of the fallen city. He had heard their shrill, shrieking wails even as the spindly avatria had come crashing down on top of them. The
roar of the wind in his ears had not drowned out their keening nor did the smoke stinging his eyes hide from him the images of horror that erupted in the streets beneath Marush’s wings. An entire city fallen at once into madness, vengeance, pain, and death. Belag had ordered the gates closed. They had not opened for these last three days. The terrifying sounds had diminished but not ceased entirely. Now, three days later, the sentries posted on watch about the city still had to be changed hourly for their nerves could not stand the howling insanity that continued from behind the city walls.

Drakis’ hand still shook.

He quickly clasped his hands together, lacing the fingers and pressing them down into his lap.

He realized that Belag was still speaking, translating for the manticorian king.

“…before great Drakis of the Prophecy. The justice of his warriors is now proven in their conquest over the coward elves and their unholy usurpation of the lands of our fathers…”

Blood flowed down the Vira Gardalis like a black river,
Drakis remembered.
It gleamed in the rising light of the day. The civilized elves of Tjarlas had worn daggers and swords as ornaments to their elegant dress that morning, never suspecting that they would spill the blood of their own friends, slaves, masters, and strangers not hours later.

“…All the Prides of Chaenandria offer the claws and fangs of their warriors to Drakis, Man of Prophecy, that he might fulfill his destiny on behalf of all the great and noble races…”

They had returned on the second day to see if they could help. Flying over the city walls on Marush with Urulani again behind him, they had circled the Theatre Hydris on the eastern side of the central district. The amphitheater was open to the air above. At first it looked as though the theater was packed and Drakis had hoped that these people had somehow managed to come here for refuge. The he noticed that none of them were moving except for the single performer on the stage…

Drakis became aware of an awkward silence in the pavilion. Belag was looking at him with a questioning expression while the Chaenandrian King frowned.

Drakis drew in a shuddering breath as he sat up straighter on his throne. “I am most grateful to the King of Chaenandria for his support.”

Gragh-Krigan looked at Belag expectantly.

Belag cleared his throat. “What the King of the Chaenandrian Prides has asked is when Drakis intends to move against Rhonas Chas?”

Drakis closed his eyes.
One last battle…it was supposed to be the last battle and he would be free.

“Please tell the great Gragh-Krigan that Drakis has not yet determined the next move in his campaign,” Urulani said from her place next to the throne.

Tsojai Acheran raised a thin eyebrow over one of his featureless elven eyes. Doroganda let out a low growl.

Belag nodded and began his own native speech to the Chaenandrian King. Gragh-Krigan nodded attentively and then responded in a series of low rumbles, hisses, and throaty calls. The words made no sense to Drakis but he did notice the ears of the other manticores in the room swiveling forward, all of them shifting their stance and becoming more attentive.

“The King of the Prides offers as a gift to the mighty Drakis the knowledge of the Northern Prides,” Belag translated. “The despised Legions of Rhonas—nearly the full strength of the army that passed through Tjarlas over this last week—has been tracked by the cunning and swift warriors of the Hrumach Clan. They bring word by the swiftness of many runners that the Legions of Imperial Repression are no longer traveling between the winds.”

“Traveling between the winds?” Doroganda blurted out.

“He means they are no longer using the folds for transport,” Belag said. “The runners report that the entire army is
walking
back.”

“Then we must attack!” the dwarf shouted.

The unexpected outburst startled Drakis. “Jugar, this is not the time…”

“It
is
the time,” the dwarf said, red-faced in his determination. “We’ve been given an unprecedented, miraculous victory over the jewel of the entire elven empire. Tjarlas itself has fallen to us in a triumph beyond our hopes. We have the might of arms at our disposal to
bring to its knees the heart of evil Imperial dominion. All we need now is the
will
to use it, to make the elves pay for their past atrocities and insure that never again will they rise up to commit more atrocities in the future!”

“Would you inflict this on all the elves?” Tsojai Acheran said in a quiet voice. The events of the last three days had affected him deeply. His words had lost their strident tone. “Would you plunge the elves into death and madness because of the Imperial Will?”

“If it will burn then let it burn,” the dwarf asserted. “Did the Imperial Will have mercy upon the dwarves in their own halls? Did the Imperial Will hold back its blades of death when it was held at the throat of all the humans of Drakosia? Did the Armies of Conquest allow the manticores of Chaenandria to keep their honor? Did they spare the Ephindrians the poison of their Aether? The Imperial Will has condemned the Empire and all those who serve it! We want justice!”

A number of cries in support erupted from the crowd around the tent.

“This is not the time or the place to consider this,” Ethis said. “The Council of the Prophet…”

“The Council of the Prophet serves Drakis and his cause,” Jugar asserted. “It is his destiny to bring justice to Rhonas and make it pay for its crimes! It is his destiny—our destiny—to destroy this corruption for all time!”

Cheers rang out both within and outside the tent.

Rhonas Chas in flames. Tjarlas was a tenth the size of the Imperial City. Now Braun was gone and none of the acolytes knew how to maintain the Devotions as Braun had claimed was possible. An entire Empire plunged into madness, chaos, and death.

“Our army’s blades are bright and sharp,” Jugar continued. “They stand ready to assault Rhonas itself and the prophecy demands it. We must not wait! We must not debate! We
dare not
delay! To war, I say! To war NOW!”

Thunderous cheers and applause greeted the dwarf’s final words though not from any of the other council members present. As the noise died down, Jugar turned to Drakis, the dwarf’s eyes fixed on him.

“Well, Drakis…Man of the Prophecy,” the dwarf said through a gap-toothed grin. “What would you have your army do?”

Drakis stared at the dwarf.