Song of the Dragon (24 page)

“Yes, the Aether Well . . . it, I don't know, it . . .
shattered
. . . outward, away from the center . . .”

Soen leaned back. “It exploded?”

“I don't understand.”

Soen shook his head. “You mean it cracked . . . it broke.”

“No, sire,” the chimerian's large eyes filled with tears. “It was suddenly no more at all . . . not a piece of it larger than the smallest finger on your hand, sire.”

Soen shook his head in disbelief.

“I think it was that human who did it,” the chimerian moaned. “I think he's the one that made me sick. Please, sire . . . my head is full of bad spirits . . . ghosts of the dead . . . please, I want to be well again.”

“Rest easy. I know how to get rid of such ghosts,” Soen said; then he stood and turned again to Gradek. “Check with your Octian Commanders. Find out if any of them saw a human male slave any time since all this began.”

“Master,” Gradek protested. “We were running through the folds for days . . . we've probably seen a number of
hoo-mani
slaves . . .”

“Just ask them!” Soen snapped.

“Sire! By the Will of the Emperor, I live to serve!”

Soen considered the young human warrior. Perhaps seventeen years of age, if he was any judge of human growth. The ears seemed to push straight out of the sides of his bald head, but the youth had a strong jaw. The scar across his forehead told the Inquisitor that he had already seen battle, but he was still young.

“You are an Octian commander?” Soen asked, his black eyes narrowed.

The boy flushed. “No, sire! That honor is not yet within my grasp. Perhaps one day, sire.”

“Why, then, am I speaking to you?”

“Sire! My Octian commander ordered me to report to you on my observations during the time of our approach as we ran through the folds before our approach to House Timuran.”

Soen smiled slightly as he folded his arms across his chest.
They really take themselves seriously at House Megnara. This slave acts as though he were in the Imperial Legions.
“And your name is?”

“Mellis, sire!”

“Then let us have your report, Warrior Mellis, by all means.”

“Sire! This was four folds before we arrived at House Timuran. We had exited from the previous fold from the riverbank marshaling field and had arrived at the canyon marshaling field with the objective of surviving the mad warrior onslaught and finding another fold by which we could return to our quarters in House Megnara. We had nearly completed our crossing toward that objective when I realized that I had neglected to secure an important item of my field gear.”

Soen glanced sideways toward Gradek.

The manticore leaned over slightly as he explained. “He dropped his sword.”

Mellis flushed once again.

“Go on,” Soen urged.

“I was rapidly approaching the fold from which we had just arrived when I saw several figures approaching outside the line of totems surrounding the marshaling field.”

“
Several
figures, Mellis?” Soen leaned forward. “How many are ‘several'?”

“Three humans, a pair of manticores and a chimerian, sire,” Mellis said, straightening his back at once. “Oh, and a dwarf . . . I remember wondering about the dwarf. They passed right between the totems as they were making their way to the fold, sire.”

“Fold? Which fold?”

“The fold we had just exited.”

“You mean they were going
toward
the chaos?” Soen asked.

“Yes,” Mellis replied at once. “That's what caught my attention. Everyone was trying to get away from the mad warriors—and these were trying to go
toward
them.”

Bolters,
Soen thought with a grimace.
Seven of them.

Dawn broke with agonizing slowness over the eastern horizon. Soen was impatient for its illumination, for he needed to examine the garden of the fallen House Timuran and could not do so properly without the aid of its light.

At last the sky brightened enough that he dared risk entering the shattered remains of the House itself. The main doors stood slightly open, shadowed from the sun by the remaining bulk of the House. Soen stood there for a time considering them.

“Master Soen.” The words were soft, deferential.

“Yes, Assesia Jukung,” Soen responded without looking at the assassin.

“The remaining slaves are ready for transport.”

The sound of flies filled the space of a breath.

“The Centurai of House Megnara has been returned, and a special Devotion has been arranged for each of their warriors . . . as you directed. None of them will remember this.”

“Thank you, Assesia,” Soen said but did not move. “Have you considered these doors, Jukung? The delicate and intricate carvings crafted no doubt in the Imperial City itself by skilled artisans of the Fifth Estate. What must it have cost old Timuran to have them brought to this remote place? Now they look tired to me, as though they feel the weight of what is behind them.”

“Master,” Jukung urged, an impatient edge to his voice, “Keeper Ch'drei is awaiting our report.”

“Then we had best give her a complete one,” Soen responded as he stepped quickly through the gap between the main doors. “We do not yet know
who
this House Timuran is . . . or why its fall brought down nearly the entire frontier. But I know where to look for at least some of the answers. Coming?”

It was the smell that was worst, Soen decided. The sights of the blood and carnage, torn limbs and broken, jutting bones one could analyze from a safer, more objective position of the mind, but the putrid, cloying smell of rotting flesh could never be put at a distance. He choked back his bile and took a single step into the garden.

Or what little remained of the garden. The avatria had crashed down into it before the structure folded sideways, collapsing into the northeast wall, slicing down through the subatria curtain wall and buildings, burying them in a hopeless pile of unrecognizable rubble. It was there, Soen noted with detachment, that the fire had burned most fiercely, but the off-shore winds of the evening must have kept the flames burning away from the southern and western sections of the subatria.

“What happened here, Master?” Jukung's words were heavy, as though he were having difficulty speaking.

“The House fell . . . quite literally it seems. Here it is, Jukung; this is the center—the root. Everything that fell on the frontier—every Well that failed—started with this event.” Soen turned to face Jukung. “The answer is here, Assesia. Have Qinsei and Phang discovered what I sent them to find?”

“I am only an Assesia, Master. I am not privy to . . .”

“Have they or not?” There was no question in Soen's voice.

“Phang reports that the Impress Scrolls are lost—apparently burned and scattered beyond recovery,” Jukung answered though his eyes were fixed anywhere but on Soen.

“And Qinsei?”

“She has recovered most of the Devotion Ledger for the last eight months.”

“Well, that's something that may prove useful.” Soen began picking his way around the southern edge of the garden wall. Here the debris was minimal although it was also unfortunately easier to pick out individual bodies or their parts. Soen dutifully noted a large concentration of warrior and Guardian bodies choking the hall that led back to the Hall of the Past on the far side of the ruined garden. In his mind, Soen pictured the Guardians gathering for their mutual defense against a suddenly insane and desperate enemy, trying to back into the corridor and find a more defensible position.

Just before this pile of dead, a glint caught his eye near the base of the curving wall. Soen looked up again at the smoldering mass of the avatria that loomed above him. He could make out only a handful of plates from the underside of the structure; it was unstable to say the least. Soen hoped to the gods that it would hold long enough to satisfy his curiosity.

Soen moved quickly around the remaining southern wall of the garden. There were more slave bodies here; some had been crushed under the debris from the collapse while others had died from sword and dagger wounds. Their blood had mixed with the dust in dark, solid stains. Still he kept his eye on his prize, moving as quickly as he dared.

At last he stopped. He stood under the archway that opened into the Hall of the Past, but that history did not interest him just yet. He reached down and plucked the shining object from the dust.

It was a crystalline shard—barely more than a sliver—that fit neatly in the palm of his hand.

“What is it?” Jukung asked in a hoarse voice.

“That, my young Assesia,” Soen said through a rueful smile, “is part of an Aether Well.”

“You are mistaken,” Jukung said. “It cannot be.”

“And yet it is,” Soen replied. “Aether Wells might crack or they might split, but the power of the Aether itself binds the crystals together. It is impossible for them to shatter once they are forged—
and yet
,” he held the crystal within inches of the young elf's face, “here is it. In the face of the impossible we find ourselves holding it in our hand.”

Soen turned and looked up. “And there
it
is.”

“What, Master?”

“The story of the House,” Soen said as he stepped carefully across the debris and strewn bodies into the Hall of the Past. Soen followed the broken wall, reading it for a few moments until he summarized for the young Assesia. “Sha-Timuran was an elf of the Third Estate,” Soen said, mulling his own words. “His name apparently did rank among the noble Houses of the Empire. Two generations before it had been ranked only in the Fourth Estate, but due to a series of favors looked kindly on by the Imperial Eye, House Timuran was allowed to prove itself in the Third Estate by taking up residence in the Western Provinces. And this, it seems, was the result of all his efforts. He had grand hopes of garnering honor through battle. His single little Centurai had participated in nearly every battle against the Nine Dwarven . . .”

Soen suddenly stopped.

A long stain ran down the length of the Hall of the Past.

Soen moved quickly, running around the bend of the hall as he pursued the path of the blood on the floor. Within a few strides he could see its source—a single, elven body slumped backward against the wall at the far end of the corridor. The face was bloated and discolored, but Soen recognized at once the uniform of the House Tribune, a patch remaining over his left eye. His blade was broken, but the grip was still in his hand.

Soen straightened, considering the figure before him.

“I
know
this elf,” he murmured in awe.