Rise Of Empire (84 page)

Thrace rocked harder, her voice trembling, her breath hitching.

“I could hear the blows and cries, men and women, day and night, screaming for mercy. Then I heard a new voice added to the wailing, and realized it was my own. I killed my family. I killed my brother, his wife, and little Hickory. I destroyed my whole village. I killed my father. I was being punished.”

Thrace began to cry.

Arista moved to her, but the girl jumped at her touch and cowered away. Crawling against the wall and sobbing, she rubbed the stone with her hands, wetting it with her tears.

Fragile?
Arista thought. Thrace had taken a blow that would have killed most people. No matter what Amilia believed, Thrace was not fragile. Yet even granite would crack if you hit it with a big enough hammer.

“Are you all right?” Arista asked.

“No, I keep searching but I can’t find it. I can’t understand the sounds. It’s so familiar and yet …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I wanted to help. I wanted—”

“It’s okay, Thrace. It’s okay.”

The empress frowned. “You have to stop calling me that.” She looked up at her. “Thrace is dead.”

I
t was perpetually twilight. The jungle’s canopy blocked what little sunlight managed to penetrate the rain clouds. A hazy mist shrouded their surroundings and intensified the deeper they pressed into the jungle. Exotic plants with stalks the size of men’s legs towered overhead. Huge leaves adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant flowers of purple, yellow, and red surrounded the party. It all left Hadrian feeling small, shrunken to the size of an insect or crawling across the floor of a giant’s forest.

Rain constantly plagued them. Water danced on a million leaves, sounding like thunder. When actual thunder cracked, it was the voice of a god. Everything was wet. Clothes stuck to their skin and hung like weights. Boots squished audibly with every step. Their hands were wrinkled like those of old men.

Royce rode on the back of a
gunguan
, what the Vintu called the pack ponies. He was awake but weak. A day had passed since the attack, because Wesley had insisted on burying Staul. Their new captain had proclaimed he would not allow the beasts to have a taste of any of his crew, and he insisted on a deep grave. No one had complained about the strenuous work of cutting through the thick mat of roots.
Hadrian doubted Wesley really cared about the fate of Staul’s carcass, but the work granted Royce time to rest, kept the crew busy, and affirmed Wesley’s commitment to them. Hadrian thought once again about the similarities between the midshipman and his famous brother.

Royce traveled wrapped in his cloak with the weight of the rain collapsing the hood around his head—not a good sign for Thranic and Bernie. Until then, Royce had played the part of the good little sailor, but with the reemergence of the hood, and the loss of his white kerchief, Hadrian knew that role had ended. They had not spoken much since the attack. Not surprisingly, Royce was in no mood for idle discussion. Hadrian guessed that by now his friend had imagined killing Thranic a dozen times, with a few Bernies thrown in here and there for variety. Hadrian had seen Royce wounded before and was familiar with the cocooning—only what would emerge from that cloak and hood would not be a butterfly.

Thranic, Defoe, and Levy traveled at the end of the train and Hadrian often caught them whispering. They wisely kept their distance, avoiding attention. Wesley led the party along with Dilladrum, who made a point of not taking sides or venturing anything remotely resembling an opinion. Dilladrum remained jolly as always and focused his attention on the Vintu.

Hadrian was most surprised with Derning. When Royce had been most vulnerable, his shipboard nemesis had come to his aid rather than taking advantage. Hadrian would have bet money that on the subject of Royce’s guilt, Derning would have sided with Thranic. Wyatt had never had the chance to find out his reason for volunteering, but now more than ever Hadrian was convinced Derning was not part of Thranic’s band. There was no doubt that Antun Bulard was a member of Thranic’s troop, but the old man lacked the ruthlessness of
the others. He was merely a resource. After showing an interest, Hadrian became Bulard’s new best friend.

“Look! Look there.” Bulard pointed to a brilliant flower blooming overhead. The old man took to walking beside Hadrian, sharing his sense of discovery along the way. “Gorgeous, simply gorgeous. Have you ever seen the like? I daresay I haven’t. Still, that isn’t saying much, now is it?”

Bulard reminded Hadrian of a long-haired cat, with his usually billowing robe and fluffy white hair deflated in the rain, leaving a remarkably thin body. He held up a withered hand to protect his eyes as he searched the trees.

“Another one of those wonderful long-beaked birds,” the historian said. “I love the way they hover.”

Hadrian smiled at him. “It’s not that you don’t mind the rain that amazes me. It’s that you don’t seem to notice it at all.”

Bulard frowned. “My parchments are a disaster. They stick together, the ink runs, I haven’t been able to write anything down, and as I mentioned at our first meeting, my head is no place to store memories of such wonderful things. It makes me feel like I’ve wasted my life locked in dusty libraries and scriptoriums. Don’t do what I did, Hadrian. You’re still a young man. Take my advice: live your life to the fullest. Breathe the air, taste the wine, kiss the girls, and always remember that the tales of another are never as wondrous as your own. I’ll admit I was, well, concerned about this trip. No, I’ll say it truthfully—I was scared. What does a man my age have to be afraid of, you wonder? Everything. Life becomes more precious when you have less of it to spare. I’m not ready to die. Why, look at all that I’ve never seen.”

“You have seen horses before, and known women, right?” Hadrian asked with a wry grin.

Bulard looked at him curiously. “I’m a historian, not a monk.”

Hadrian nearly tripped.

“I realize I don’t look it now, but I was quite handsome once. I was married three times, in fact. Outlived all of them, poor darlings. I still miss them, you know—each one. My silly little mind hasn’t misplaced their faces, and I can’t imagine it ever will. Have you ever been in love, Hadrian?”

“I’m not sure. How do you tell?”

“Love? Why, it’s like coming home.”

Hadrian considered the comment.

“What are you thinking?” Bulard asked.

Hadrian shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Yes, you were. What? You can tell me. I’m an excellent repository for secrets. I’ll likely forget, but if I don’t, well, I’m an old man in a remote jungle. I’m sure to die before I can repeat anything.”

Hadrian smiled, then shrugged. “I was just thinking about the rain.”

The trail widened, revealing a great, cascading waterfall and a dozen grass-thatched buildings clustered at the center of a small clearing. The domed-roof huts rested on high wooden stilts and were accessed by short stairs or ladders, depending on the size and apparent prestige of the structure. Occupying the very center of the clearing was a fire pit, surrounded by a ring of colorfully painted stones and wooden poles decorated in animal skins, skulls, and strings of bones, beads, and long vibrant feathers. The inhabitants were dark-haired, dark-eyed, umber-skinned men and women dressed in beautifully painted cloths and silks. They paused as Dilladrum advanced respectfully. Elder men met him before the fire ring, where they exchanged bows.

“Who are these people, do you suppose?” Bulard asked.

“Tenkins,” Hadrian replied.

Bulard raised his eyebrows.

The village was familiar to Hadrian, though he had never been there. Hundreds of similar ones were scattered across the peninsula, mirror images of each other. The rubble of eastern Calis was the last standing residue of the Old Empire. After civil wars had torn apart the west, Calis still flew the old imperial banners and for centuries formed the bulwark against the advancing Ghazel horde. Time, however, was on the Ghazel’s side. The last of the old world died when the ancient eastern capital, Urlineus, fell to the goblin hordes sweeping through the jungles. They might have overrun all of Avryn if not for Glenmorgan III.

Glenmorgan III had rallied the nobles and defeated the goblins at the Battle of Vilan Hills. The Ghazel fell back but were never driven off the mainland. Betrayed shortly after his victory, Glenmorgan III never finished his work of reestablishing the kingdom’s borders. This task fell to lesser men, who squabbled over the spoils of war and were too distracted to stop the Ghazel from digging in. Urlineus, the last great city of the Old Empire, remained in the hands of the Ghazel, and Calis had never been the same.

Fractured and isolated, the eastern half of the country struggled against the growing pressure of the Ghazel nation in a maelstrom of chaos and confusion. Self-appointed warrior-kings fought against each other. Out of desperation, some enlisted the aid of the Ghazel to vanquish a rival. Ties formed, lines blurred, and out of this tenuous alliance were born the Tenkin—humans who had adopted the Ghazel’s ways, traditions, and beliefs. For this, Calians ostracized the Tenkin, forcing their kind deeper into the jungles, where they lived on the borderlands between the anvil and the hammer.

Dilladrum returned. “This is the village of Oudorro. I’ve been here many times. Although Tenkin, they’re a friendly and generous people. I’ve asked them to let us rest here for the night. Tomorrow morning we’ll push on toward the Palace of the Four Winds. Beyond this point, travel will be much harder and unpleasant, so we’ll need a good night’s rest. I must caution you, however: please do nothing to offend or provoke these people. They’re courteous but can be fierce if roused.”

The physical appearance of the Tenkin always impressed Hadrian. Staul was a crude example of his kin, and these men were more what he remembered. Lean, bronzed muscles and strong facial features that looked hewn from blocks of stone were the hallmarks of the Tenkin warrior. Like the great cats of the jungle, they had bodies graceful in their strength and simplicity. The women were breathtaking. Long, dark hair wreathed sharp cheekbones and almond eyes. Their satin-smooth skin enveloped willowy curves. The “civilized” world never saw Tenkin women. A closely guarded treasure, they never left their villages.

The inhabitants showed neither fear nor concern at the procession of the foreigners. Most observed their arrival with silent curiosity. The women showed more interest, pressing forward to peer and talking among themselves.

“I thought Tenkins were grotesque,” Bulard said with the casual manner and volume of a man commenting on animals. “I had heard they were abominations of nature, but these people are beautiful.”

“A common misconception,” Hadrian explained. “People tell tales that Tenkin are the result of interbreeding between Calians and Ghazel, but if you ever saw a goblin, you’d understand why that’s not possible.”

“I guess you can’t believe everything you read in books. But don’t spread that around, or I’ll be out of a job.”

When they reached the village center, the Vintu went about their work and began unpacking. They moved with stoic familiarity. The party waited, listening to the hiss of rain on the fire and the murmur of the crowd gathering around them. With an expectant expression, Dilladrum struggled to see over their heads. He exchanged looks with Wesley but said nothing. Soon a small elderly Tenkin dressed in a leopard wrap entered the circle. His skin was like wrinkled leather, and his hair like gray steel. He walked with a slow dignity and an upturned chin. Dilladrum smiled and the two spoke rapidly. Then the elderly Tenkin clapped his hands and shouted. The crowd fell back and he led the crew of the
Emerald Storm
into the largest of the buildings. It had four tree-sized pillars holding up a latticework of intertwined branches overlaid with thatch. The interior lacked partitions and stood as an open hall lined with tanned skins and pillows made from animal hides.