Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (30 page)

Bandits, then. Azmei nodded and chose her first target.

Neither the lone swordsman nor the bandit leader noticed when the first man dropped, a throwing star blossoming in his throat. He fell silently and writhed in the sand for a few moments before going still. The bandit nearest him noticed and dropped into a crouch, eyes wide. Azmei's clothes were designed to camouflage her in the desert, though. She threw the second star and he never saw what killed him.

Better. One each, and even if he's wounded, he should be able to take care of the bandit leader.
Azmei drew her sword as she rose to a crouch. She darted in. The lone swordsman pivoted, probably thinking she was another bandit, and he made a noise that clenched her gut with remembered pain. He stumbled, and the bandit leader took advantage of the momentary weakness.

The bandit leader charged, sword held high. He shouted as he charged. Azmei knew instinctively that the lone swordsman couldn't meet that charge. She wasn't certain she could, with as much bulk as the bandit had. But she interposed herself between them and deflected the bandit's cut. She felt like she'd been run over by a bull, but she managed to swing around and slice the back of his leg as he charged past her. He howled. More in anger than pain, she thought.

"Can you take him?" she asked the swordsman in a low voice. The last bandit wavered, eyes flicking from his enraged leader to the two of them and back. He would break, she thought. The two she'd killed weren't the first casualties. Three others lay dead, including the woman, and another bandit was curled around a gut wound that would probably end up killing him.

Gods above and below, who is this madman who takes on eight?

"Yes."

"Good." She spun around and feinted at the bandit. He yelped and ran. Azmei could have killed him, but she preferred not to, if it wasn't necessary. She watched him go for a moment, then turned back to the rest of the fight.

The lone swordsman was engaged with the bandit leader, who didn't appear to realize he'd been abandoned. The bandit leader's strokes were obviously practiced, but they were wild with emotion. The swordsman parried each of them, though she could tell he was tiring. He'd lost a lot of blood.

Twice I offered to parlay
, the lone swordsman had said.  Would he offer a third time? She held her blade at the ready and advanced, letting both men see that she was ready to assist the swordsman, should he weaken.

"Surrender!" the man snapped. "I won't offer again!"

"Go fuck yourself," the bandit leader howled. He lunged at the lone swordsman. It was the sloppiest thrust Azmei had seen in years. Later she would wonder if he'd done it on purpose. In the moment, she watched as the swordsman placed himself exactly where he needed to be for the bandit leader to impale himself on the longer of his two blades.

The bandit leader groaned. The blade had punched through the right side of his chest. Probably punctured his lung, Azmei thought clinically, but not his heart. That would be slower.

The swordsman let the bandit slide off his blade. He didn't look at the man as he wiped his sword on one of the bodies. "Who sent you?" he asked, leaning in.

"—ck yourself," the bandit mumbled. Blood bubbled out of his lips. "Lail." He turned his head to look at the woman's body. Azmei felt a pang of sorrow. Whatever his crimes, he'd loved her.

The lone swordsman knelt by the bandit's shoulders. "
Who sent you?
"

The bandit sneered at him and died.

The swordsman swore and rocked back onto his heels. He tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. After a moment he flinched and dropped ungracefully to his ass in the sand.

"Are you all right?" Azmei didn't sheathe her sword as she eased closer.

He tensed, which told her he'd forgotten about her. "I'm fine." He was breathless. Azmei listened to his panting and the groaning of the one living bandit. Perhaps that bandit would know who had sent them. She doubted it.

"Why did you help me?" the swordsman demanded.

Azmei shrugged wryly. "He said to."

"Who?"

"The boy I'm guarding."

He twisted around to stare at her. "I could have been a thief they'd caught stealing!" he exclaimed. "I could have been a murderer! I could be anyone!"

"You could be." She shrugged again. "He sees visions. I did as he said."

Hooves thumped against the sand towards them, approaching the other side of the rise. She saw the swordsman tense again, but she knew who it was. A moment later, Firefoot carried Yarro, still blank-stared, into the carnage and stopped.

Azmei glanced down at the swordsman. He was staring up at the teenager on the giant horse. Yar was breathing, but aside from that, he gave no sign of life for several heartbeats. Finally he blinked and smiled at them.

"Hello. Aevver can sew your wounded arm for you."

Chapter 21

Razem had not been angry at his mother's funeral. She had been ill for a time and then she had been dead. He had mourned as a boy. Now, as a man, he mourned the loss of a father who had been stolen from him, and he was angry. He was furious.

But even the anger couldn't cover the pain of this loss.

He stood at the front of the great hall, draped in heavy robes in the ceremonial color of mourning—a purple so deep it was nearly black. They were thick, but somehow the hall seemed cold despite the season, and Razem was almost grateful for how heavy they were. He already felt like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders; but somehow the robes were like armor, enabling him to stand under that weight.

The room was bright, all the torches lit against the fading of light and life. Funerals were held at sunset, the time when the world slipped into darkness mirroring the slipping of life into death. Razem looked over at the clerics. The Deathtaker's high priest nodded and stepped forward.

"The sleeping gods have decreed that men shall die. In death, all become equal before the gods. But in life, not all are equal. We remember here the life of Marsede Corrone, King of Tamnen, father of Razem and Azmei, husband of Izbel of the Fifth Family. We honor him. And we commend him to the gods." He bowed his head, lifting his hands in front of him, palms outward. Everyone assembled in the great hall was silent. Even the usual rustle of cloth, normally echoed around the vaulted ceiling, was still.

Finally the Deathtaker's priest lifted his head. "Come forth."

They came in the rank of their families, Arisanat first, placing his steps carefully. His robes were the same color as Razem's, but edged in velvet the color of old gold. His short-cropped hair showed not only the purple godsmark on his temple but the bandage tied in place over the opposite temple. A pang of guilt pierced Razem's haze. He should have called on Arisanat. He should have at least sent a personal message. He had not forgotten about the attack on his cousin. He merely hadn't cared in the face of his father's death.

Arisanat bowed deeply, his posture correct despite the careful movements. "Majesty," Arisanat murmured, "I share your grief. My cousin was a kind man and a conscientious ruler."

Razem took his cousin by the shoulders and lifted him up, embracing him. Did Arisanat truly believe what he was saying? He had argued against all of Marsede's recent peace-making. There had never been any bad blood between them before Venra's death, but before Venra's death, Marsede hadn't been attempting peace. Could Arisanat truly believe Marsede was a conscientious ruler?

"Thank you, cousin," Razem murmured aloud. "I know my father was fond of you. I hope you will stay by me as we heal the kingdom of this loss." He kissed Arisanat's cheek, pleased when he felt Arisanat's lips brush his cheek in response. Arisanat stepped back when Razem released him.

"The First Family sends its respects, King Razem," he said, meeting Razem's eyes.

"You have my thanks, Lord Burojan."

Arisanat nodded and stepped aside so Lady Riman could take his place.

Riman was older than Marsede had been, with brown skin and long silver hair that was looped in intricate braids around her head. Lines were graven deep around her eyes and mouth, and there was a profound grief in the dark eyes that met Razem's. Lady Riman and King Marsede had been friends for a very long time.

"King Razem, the Second Family sends its respects," she said, her quiet voice nevertheless carrying throughout the quiet hall. "The Second Family swears anew our old loyalty to the royal family, and mourns Marsede's death." She sank into a deep curtsy.

A rustle of whispers followed in the wake of that pronouncement. Arisanat hadn't made such an oath, because it wasn't part of the funeral ceremony. That was reserved for Razem's official coronation, which would be a month from now. Until that ceremony, the old loyalties were assumed, and there had never been any reason to doubt them.

Razem smiled at her, raising her from her curtsy and kissing her cheek. "Lady Riman, your support warms me, and the royal family's love for the Second Family is stronger than it has ever been."

Dry lips brushed his cheek. "Be careful, Razem," she whispered, and withdrew.

Razem watched her go, taking in the slope of her thin shoulders under the heavy mourning gown edged in silvery gray. She was old, and he didn't know her heir as he should. There were many things he didn't know as he should, and he suddenly felt that lack keenly.

The third to come was Lord Birona. His bulk made his mourning robes look even heavier, edged as they were in dark blue. His face seemed to droop, mouth turned down, tiny eyes nearly swallowed by downturned eyebrows. There was nevertheless a shrewd gleam in them. Razem didn't doubt the leader of the King's Council was appraising him, trying to discern how fit Razem was for kingship. He supposed he deserved it, considering the way he had behaved the last time he and Birona had met.

"The Third Family sends its respects, King Razem," Birona said. His voice was higher than expected from a man of his size, but it commanded attention throughout the kingdom. Razem hoped he hadn't lost Birona's good opinion. Birona's bow seemed fragile—he dropped as low as was correct, but he seemed to have trouble holding still until Razem stepped forward to raise him.

"My thanks, Lord Birona," he said, kissing the nobleman's cheek. "And thank you for keeping to the proper ritual," he murmured.

Birona chuckled faintly as he kissed Razem's cheek in return. "Your Majesty knows how fond I am of ritual." The brief levity made Razem feel better. All the same, the way Birona smoothed his robes in place troubled him as the man walked away.

Lady Tel of the Fourth Family was a quiet, inoffensive woman who was quietly, inoffensively pretty. Nevertheless, she held her position by right of blood and virtue both, and Razem liked her. Her husband of fifteen years had died last year of a wasting gut, and she had remained strong throughout his illness despite her clear sadness. Theirs had been an arranged marriage that developed into regard, if not true love.

She walked up the steps with a young daughter at each side, gripping her hands. If that made it difficult to climb the steps in her floor-length gown, Razem couldn't tell. The girls each carried a deep purple rose, and when Tel curtsied, the girls held out their roses.

Razem smiled and took the flowers before touching Tel's elbow for her to straighten. "The Fourth Family sends its respects, King Razem," she said. There was a quiet sorrow in her dark eyes; Razem sensed that she truly mourned with him.

"My thanks, Lady Tel," he said, leaning in to trade the ritual kiss. As Tel led her daughters away, one of them, perhaps six years old, turned to look over her shoulder at her new king. His fingers tightened around the stem of the roses.

Ilzi was next, Razem's fifteen-year-old cousin by his mother's side. Her mourning gown was edged in white, as the dead queen's nearest relation outside the royal family, and her eyes were rimmed with red. She came up the steps and he could tell she was about to throw her arms around him when she remembered and dropped into a curtsy instead. "King Razem, dear cousin, the Fifth Family sends its respects. We share your deepest sorrow." Her childish voice seemed almost that of a woman, and Razem couldn't help but mourn how quickly she was growing up.

"I thank you, Lady Ilzi, my dear cousin," he said. He drew her to her feet and kissed her cheek, allowing her to embrace him. Her slender arms around him were strong as she kissed his cheek in return. She reminded him of Azmei. With a pang, he set her gently away and watched her go.

"King Razem, the Sixth Family sends its respects," said Lord Belnat as he climbed the steps. He was a thin man in his late forties, with chestnut-colored skin and silver-streaked black hair. He was chewing his lower lip as he bowed, more deeply even than was required.

Razem felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He had come to his Family Headship—and the Council—in the past year, after his aged father's death. This ceremony must recall too much of that loss. He lifted Belnat and kissed both cheeks instead of the customary one. "I thank you, Belnat," he said for all to hear. Then, lowering his voice, he added, "I share my loss with yours."

Belnat gave him a startled look before nodding.

Lady Talt had only one daughter in tow, which was new. Usually she brought them both around whenever she thought she would see Razem. He winced inwardly at the tiresome tone of that thought. He shouldn't think ill of her. She loved her daughters and only wished to see them well settled. It was hard to fault her for that.

"The Seventh Family sends its respects, King Razem," she said, curtsying. Her daughter—the older, if Razem remembered right—curtsied along with her. He suppressed the urge to kiss the daughter's cheek and raised Talt instead.

"My thanks, Lady Talt."

Thank the gods, she left without a remark about how lonely he must be, with no wife to share his grief. It was uncharitable for him to expect such a remark, he chided himself.

Lord Restin of the Eighth Family was a tall, bluff man in his mid-forties. He strode up and bowed as he spoke the Eighth Family's respects. When Razem raised him for the kiss, Restin remarked, "This is terribly familiar, Majesty. I pray the gods protect you." Razem's lips faltered against Restin's cheek, then he tightened his grip on the man's shoulders and drew back.

"I thank you, Lord Restin." He held Restin's gaze, but saw only sincerity there.

Finally they had reached the Ninth Family. Lord Daix was a tall, broad-shouldered man with light brown skin who usually wore a broad smile and carried a contagious laugh everywhere. Now he was solemn, his dark brown eyes sympathetic. "The Ninth Family sends its respects, King Razem," he said, his deep voice reaching across the hall. He bowed deeply.

"My thanks, Lord Daix," Razem said, and after they traded the ritual kiss, the most excruciating part of the funeral was over.

The clerics took over again after that, the servants of all five gods taking it in turn to speak of life and death and honor, though the Deathtaker's high priest presided over all. The words of the blessings and the rituals were comforting, but Razem felt it a false comfort. Would his father truly join the gods in their holy sleep? Was that all the gods were good for?

After the rituals, they made their torchlit procession to the Hallowed City, where Marsede was enshrined alongside the late Queen Izbel. To one side of their tomb was the empty tomb of Princess Azmei—the one Razem now knew she didn't need and didn't miss. Where was Azmei? What was she doing?
Please come back to me, little sister,
he thought.

The feast to end the funeral was held by the light of a hundred lamps, but Razem couldn't help seeing shadows in every corner. He sat alone at the high table, lonely but glad not to be seated with Arisanat and Riman and Birona. There was little conversation, even at the tables with more occupants. Everything was muted and reserved. Razem ate a few bites of everything that was placed in front of him despite his lack of appetite. He had no taste for it, but he must keep up his strength.

Finally he was able to dismiss everyone. He spoke a few words of thanks and made his way to his quarters, shadowed by half a dozen guards that he pretended not to see. He was exhausted and had a headache and wanted out of the ceremonial robes.

His quarters were dim and quiet. He let Gendo remove the robes and hang them. When Gendo came back, Razem was still standing in the middle of the room, looking blankly at the carpet. Gendo brought him a glass of wine, but Razem shook his head.

"Water, please. I've had enough wine." The thick, sweet aftertaste lingered on his tongue. The water cleared it, curling coldly through his mouth. It roused him from his exhaustion a little.

He didn't want to go to bed, despite the headache. He wouldn't sleep well, and he was unwilling to drink enough to let him sleep well. He moved aimlessly around his rooms, looking at the spines of the books on his shelves, the small portraits of Izbel and Azmei that hung over the fireplace, the painting of the Governor's Palace at Rivarden reflected in Sky Lake. He drank a second glass of water.

Finally he wrapped himself in a cloak and told Gendo to go to sleep. "I will go read what Master Tanvel left us. I will not need you until morning."

***

They had chosen an unused office near Kho's office as the safest place to keep Tanvel's documents locked up. They were in a locked, reinforced wooden chest, and only Kho and Razem held the keys. The chest was hidden under a desk, and the door to the office was locked, again with keys only the two of them held. The door was locked when Razem let himself in, but he was unsurprised to find a lamp burning in the entryway. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him, turning the lock from the inside.

"Why am I not surprised to find you here?"

Emran was sitting on a cushioned bench, his lap awash in papers. He looked up when Razem spoke. "I have to find something. Tanvel knew who was behind this. He must have."

Razem walked further into the office, trailing his fingers over dusty figurines and an inkwell that had long since gone dry. "Perhaps not. Perhaps he only knew more than we, rather than the whole."

"Whatever he knew is here," Kho said stubbornly.

Razem shook his head and sat in a leather armchair at one end of the desk. "Give me something to look through. I'll not sleep tonight. I might as well be useful."