Oathkeeper (15 page)

*

Kholburran's eyes widened at the sight of the huge headless beast upon which the large Zaur rode. Like an obsidian statue of a headless dragon built on the scale of a great ox, the six-toed beast had dangerous-looking ridges along its chest and the front of its leg joints. The Zaur itself held a long, angled blade, much like the Skreel knives the other Zaur favored, but four feet long with a broader blade. Scales the color of dried blood peeked out from beneath a coat of plates.

“I know,” the Zaur said convivially, “you would all die to protect the male.” Four black-scaled Zaur with zigzag patterns of electric blue rode out of the smoke on mounts that matched that of the ruddy-scaled Zaur.

“I know this,” it continued, “and I promise I am perfectly willing to spare him, to spare all of you. In fact, I would joyfully cease and desist all hostility against the Vael and leave The Parliament of Ages.” It leaned forward over its blade, one clawed paw resting on its mount's stony front ridge. “Does that at all interest you?”

“Killing you interests us more,” Kholburran shouted.

“This is not the time for games, Snapdragon,” Malli told him. “You fight well, but . . .”

“Who speaks for your group?” the Zaur asked.

“I do,” Arri croaked. She reached up to fiddle with the crossbow bolt in her throat, and Lara stepped over to help her dig it out, eying warily the Zaur who had been fighting them until the large Zaur had shouted “Enough.”

Kholburran had heard the Root Guard gossiping about previous exploits against Zaur. They'd reported several scouts of advance forces getting ready to raid the Eldrennai, but all the ones they had described had been small black-, brown-, or gray-scaled reptiles, slender and quick. He watched as the Gliders, at least a dozen of them, with their mottled camouflaging scales dropped out of the trees.

“You have faced our diminutive cousins in the past,” the Zaur spoke. “I believe you call them Zaur?”

“And you aren't Zaur?” Arri asked, shooing Lara away when they'd torn the bolt out quickly.

“I am General Tsan.” Its forked gray tongue flicked out to taste the air. “My people dwell in the deep places where the warmbloods do not go, worshipping a god most warmbloods have long abandoned. You know our name, even though you do not know it is ours, because our home bears it. We are the Sri'Zaur and we come in peace.”

“Peace?!” Kholburran yelled. “You burned Tranduvallu. Burned him and his protectors without provocation!”

General Tsan began a series of barking coughs. It took a moment for Kholburran to realize it was laughing.

*

“I apologize,” General Tsan said once she felt they'd realized she had meant to be laughing. “I do not intend to dismiss your loss, but our ways are different in so many respects other than our physical dissimilarities.”

<> Tsan tapped with her tail.

<> came the faint reply.

“We attacked your smallest outpost in the ancient tradition of our people,” she said aloud, then tapped in Zaurtol, <>

“When we deployed the Zaurruk—” On cue one of the mighty serpents burst from the ground directly behind the Weeds. <>

“—and our other soldiers—” Breathing gouts of liquid fire into the air and catching it back in their mouths like twisted fountains in a pyromaniac's Zen garden, Brazz led his Flamefangs out of the tunnel the Zaurruk had opened. “We were only demonstrating our value as allies. We are numerous—” <>

Black-, brown-, and gray-scaled archers charged out of the billowing smoke behind Tsan, crossbows at the ready. Some of them hissed rapidly for air as if they had nearly suffocated in the sooty back. Tsan hoped the Weeds didn't notice.

“And for any alliance to come to fruition in the depths,” Tsan trilled, “a show of force—” <> it burst from the soil directly behind Tsan and her mounted guard. “—is required before either side will take the other seriously.”

“We have shown you some small portion of our military might,” General Tsan continued, savoring the looks of awe and dismay on the faces of the five little Weeds, “and we believe you now understand the havoc we could wreak upon your older, more populated Root Trees, just as we now appreciate your bravery and the way you value the lives of your fellow . . . Vael. Your tenacity in the face of a superior force is obvious and we admire it.”

“Liar!” the little male shouted.

General Tsan ignored the outburst, waiting patiently while the females shouted the male down.

“Hush, Snapdragon,” the one-armed Weed said sternly, “the girl-type persons are talking. What,” she asked as she stepped forward, “would be required to establish this peace?”

“Take me,” General Tsan dismounted, hip muscles twitching, skin itching like mad. She longed to rip free of the remnants of her male skin, “to Queen . . . Kari. Isn't it? Your young prince will stay behind to ensure my safety.”

“And what's to stop us,” the one-armed Vael asked, “from coming back with reinforcements and crushing this invasion force of yours?”

Tsan decided she liked humans better. They screamed and got angry, but they usually understood the way of things more quickly than this. Well . . . the Zalizians hadn't, at Na'Shie, but the Holsvenians had been much more pragmatic.

“This, my young Vael,” Tsan cooed, “is not Warlord Xastix's invasion force.” Her eyes nictated languidly. “What you see here is the meager negotiation team I was allowed . . . the right size to ensure our target's destruction. The rest of my army is already in place. Assuming we can come to an accord in the next thirteen days, however, you need never concern yourselves with their locations. What say you?”

Gathering together in a sort of kneeling huddle, the Weeds argued back and forth, the male trying to get a word in, but the females shouting him down until he gave up and sat to the side, listening in dejection.

“Stay here, Snapdragon,” Arri told the male. “All right, General.” She held out her remaining hand. “It looks like you're with us, but if you hurt the prince—”

“No force on all Barrone will prevent you from avenging yourself?” Tsan flicked her tongue out, tasting the air. “Well, yes, my force would prevent it, but as I have no interest in killing the young male, the point is moot.”

Tsan dropped her weapon on the ground and shrugged out of the coat of plates she wore, letting both items drop to the forest floor. “Shall we go?”

CHAPTER 12

. . . AND KINGS LIVE

The mage-formed spires of Castle Ammond shone white in the harsh light of banished summer. On the second-highest balcony of the central spire—below and to the right of the King's Royal Suite—a lone figure stood in a long wool robe, cotton breeches, his feet wrapped in bandages. Salty air from the sea ruffled his garments and mussed his long black hair. Loosely tied with a blue sash, the robe fell open to the waist revealing pale flesh beneath, the training-hardened muscle, but (most strikingly) the trail of scars wending its way around Rivvek's torso.

Everyone saw his facial scars, his ruined ear, the melted wreck that was a third of his face, but few saw the foot-long cicatrix commemorating a Ghaiattri's grip on his left side. Just above the hip: a claw print in wet clay . . .

The matching marks on his right calf . . . the splayed print at his sternum . . . the angry red circle below it where the Ghaiattri's thumb had pierced his chest. When his mind wandered, the scent of his own burnt flesh could still surprise him. Thinking about them brought pain and heat back to the wounds.

“Still alive,” he whispered. “But you aren't, are you, Father?”

“Sire,” Sargus's quiet voice called behind him.

Rivvek squinted, the sharp features of his face cast in heightened severity. Amid pendulous clouds out at sea, a bright dot in the distance winked at him, catching the sun. Rivvek's long black hair, drawn back in a ponytail, held in place by a brass hair cuff, blew out behind him—a muted halo of black. Goosebumps rose at the increased chill, but he did not step away or draw his robe closer.
I'd rather be back in the tent or at Oot. Anywhere really.
Out over the breakers in the distance, the flaring object caught his eye again.

“Out here, Sargus. Bring my spyglass, would you?”

“Spyglass?” Sargus called from beyond the heavy blue drapes that muted the cold and wind from blowing into the suite behind Rivvek.

“Please?” Rivvek made a loose fist. He held it up, looking through the small dot of clear space. Still flaring, the approaching object came into better focus, but not quite good enough to confirm what Rivvek knew in his heart it would be. “Oh. And watch your step. There's glass.”

“Glass?” Sargus stepped out onto the balcony. The leather half cap and accompanying lenses that often covered the haffet of his face were nowhere to be seen. Absent as well was the satchel of supplies he often wore at his back to mimic a hunch. Rivvek considered it a special privilege that Sargus rarely feigned deformity in his presence when it could be avoided. Certainly not when they were alone. Rivvek did not have to ask why Sargus made the gesture, but noticing it brought a half smile to his lips.

“My prince?” Sargus frowned at the scattered shards of glass covering the stone floor of the balcony and the bloodied footprints amongst them.

“Don't baby me, Sargus!” Rivvek spared a glance at his bandaged feet. “I cut my feet and destroyed a priceless antique table and chair set in a fit of . . .” He grasped for the words. “. . . fatalistic rage. Pique. Stupidity. Grief. Take your pick, O he-who-can-sleep-through-anything.”

“Did you—?” But Sargus cut himself off, his nostrils widening.

“I treated them,” Rivvek interrupted, “and then Bhaeshal insisted on doing it all over again herself. She did a far better job of than I did, though, so I can't fault her for it. I'd have thought you'd smell the laughing salve and cleansing salts.”

“Yes, I do now.” Sargus was always so amusing when he didn't know what to do. “Should I call a servant—”

“And have Jason or Alice clean it up for me?” Rivvek shook his head. “No. It's my mess. I'll clear it away. Spyglass?” he added, hand held out to receive it.

“Take mine.” Sargus held out a telescoping spyglass, its “barrels” overlaid with a richly stained wood Rivvek did not immediately recognize.

“Thank you.” Rivvek turned the unfamiliar optic to the sea, raising the eyepiece to his eye. He spied at once the brightly blazing metal construct of silver and crystal that had been his father's crown. It soared through the clouds, a blazing relic of finality. Beautiful and elegant as it was, Rivvek hated the sight of the thing.

“Excellent work.” Lowering the spyglass, he closed his eyes and handed it back. “Your craftsmanship?”

Glass crunched under sandal-clad feet as Sargus stepped closer to the balustrade, the soft hiss of the spyglass telescoping outward. A muttered curse as Sargus found the crown in the objective lens.

“I'm sorry, my king.”

“Exactly as I forecast. What luck, eh?” Tears streaming down his face, Rivvek let his robe drop. Wind from the bay wove the scent of sea around him, the sun scintillating on the foci that framed his back in the rough outline of wings. Simple circles of brass, steel, gold, or silver at first, the foci ranged into rarer materials as they worked down his side: jade, quartz, even samples of wood and bone-steel . . . anything the Artificers could think of (and justify) to restore and strengthen his connection to the elemental magic that had been his from birth until . . . until it hadn't.

None of it had helped.

Rivvek could still hear Hasimak reporting back to the king.
The damage is quite extensive, Your Majesty, Perhaps given time . . . I'm sorry. No one has ever survived such an assault. . . .

Rivvek winced at the image of the Ghaiattri looming over him, burning away his skin, his soul, his . . . magic.

He shook away the mental pain, not only to avoid dwelling on past trauma but also because he had no time for it. His father would have been able to bargain for only a few days. Between two and five, if his own math, his version of the great destiny machine, had calculated the Aern's reaction well.

“Closer to five,” Rivvek murmured. “Please.”

Not much time, but enough time, if Rivvek's other calculations of all known variables on the great destiny machine of probabilities were correct as well. He felt the gentle touch of Sargus's hand on his back where the most important scars of Rivvek or his people's future lay: A diamond pattern at the base of his spine with two lines parallel with and equal in length to each side of diamond. His shoulders were each marked with a right-angled wedge. Along his spine ran a long thumb-width line, essentially a tally mark: the number one.

Getting Kholster's scars on his back had hurt the least but meant the most. Those scars meant hope. The one variable that might let him salvage his brother's mess.

You forgave me, Kholster
, Rivvek thought,
even though I failed, you rewarded the effort. The thought counted with you. Why?

“You never told me how you convinced him to make you Aiannai,” Sargus said as if sensing his thoughts. “All save Zhan rejected me, because of my father. But Kholster himself accepted you. He—”

“Simple.” Rivvek stepped through the blue drapes, off of the cold balcony, and into the warmth of his modest, if spacious, suite of rooms. A fire blazed in the fireplace beneath a bare mantel. An assortment of rugs covered the stone, but no tapestries or pictures hung on the walls. An array of finely crafted weaponry awaited Rivvek's pleasure on a large wall-mounted weapon rack, but his bedroll and pack (with newly laundered travel clothes within) neatly stored next to the gear were the only signs of sleeping accommodations. A well-worn armchair sat in one corner next to a mountainous stack of books and scrolls beneath a wall sconce. An armor stand bearing a suit of grotesque Ghaiattri hide plate, the ram-like horns of the Ghaiattri itself mounted on the helm, dominated the room. Next to it, a mystic sparring dummy stood at the ready.