The Providence of Fire (37 page)

Nira shrugged. “Your father sat on that ugly rock, but he was just one man. Lot more than that are gonna die, you go startin' a war. Who's gonna do the dyin' on your side?”

“The Sons of Flame,” Adare replied.

Nira raised a bushy eyebrow.

“They hate the empire already,” Adare went on, trying to sound like she believed the words as they left her lips. Trying to believe them. “I just need to convince Vestan Ameredad that I'm a different type of Malkeenian.”

She fell silent, waiting for the old woman to berate her for shortsightedness, stupidity, or both, but Nira just sucked air between her crooked teeth. “Ameredad,” she said after a while. “Might be we're not just on the same path, but in the same wagon, too.”

Adare frowned. “What do you want with him?”

“Maybe nothing. Can't say till I see the man, till I see his face.”

“What's that going to tell you?”

“Whether he's the one did this to us,” the old woman replied, voice hardening.

Adare hesitated. A cold wind had picked up, whipping down from the north, churning the canal to a froth of chop and spray, whipping Adare's face with her hair. Oshi turned from the water, shaking his head, tears coursing down his weathered cheeks.

“They're gone,” he said, gesturing to the water. “The fish are gone.” His voice was lost, plaintive, pitifully weak against the gusts. “Did I kill them, Nira? Did I kill them all?”

“No,” she said, keeping her eyes on Adare. “You didn't kill them, Oshi.”

“Did
what
to you?” Adare asked.

Nira waved a hand at Oshi. “Made us immortal. Made us kings and queens of half the world. Made us mad.”

Adare shivered at the words even as she tried to make sense of them. She'd read dozens of accounts of the origin of the Atmani, but not one, not even Yenten's
History
, claimed any certainty about where the leach-lords had acquired their longevity or power.

“Who…” Adare began hesitantly, searching for a way to frame the question. “How…”

“Csestriim,” Nira hissed, then spat onto the dirt. “Didn't realize it then. Didn't learn till later, when we caught and killed two of them. Two of the three.”

Adare shook her head at the impossibility of the notion. “Why would the Csestriim want to … help you?”

“Help?” Nira choked on a laugh, then stabbed a bony finger at Oshi. “Does that look like helping ta you?”

“But they made you immortal,” Adare protested. “They gave you powers.”

“The powers were ours before we ever met them. They just … enhanced them. As for immortal…” She held out a withered arm. “Looks like they didn't get that quite right either. This body's going ta dirt. It's just takin' a lot longer than it oughta.” She grimaced. “The Csestriim didn't give a rotted shit for us, girl—they were trying to make a new breed, or to remake an old one. Thought they'd found a way to bring back their race.”

Adare stared. “But you're not Csestriim. You have feelings.”

Nira snorted. “You noticed? Like I said, they tried to play at Bedisa's work and they fucked up.”

“The beginning of your reign was a golden age,” Adare pointed out.

“And then it went straight into the shitter. We weren't meant to live this long, to have this much power. Something up here,” she rapped at her skull with a knuckle, “can't take it.”

“But
you
aren't…”

“That's because I realized it first. Quit dipping into my well. I tried to get Roshin to stop, too, but he was wrapped up in the dream. The dream first, and then the war.” Her eyes were dark, bleak. “He catches glimpses, sometimes, of what it's done to him, but if I left him alone for a full day, he'd throw himself right back into it.”

“A thousand years,” Adare breathed, mind reeling at the thought. “For more than a thousand years you've done nothing but keep him drugged. Keep him in check.”

“Not nothing, girl,” Nira snapped. “Learned ta knit a few centuries back. Picked up the flute a bit.” She shrugged. “Since forgot it.”

“Why?” Adare asked quietly. “If you resent the immortality so much, couldn't you…” She trailed off.

“Bash his head in?” Nira asked brightly. She turned to her brother. “Whatta ya say, Rosh? How'd ya feel about a quick brick to the brain?”

He turned his rheumy eyes on her, open mouth revealing his yellowing teeth. “If you think so, Nira…” he responded hesitantly. “Whatever you think is best.”

The old woman let out an exasperated sigh. “Whatever I think is best. What a pathetic pile o' bones you've become.” She turned back to Adare. “I'm tempted to kill him almost every day. Seems it'd be a mercy, but then, he's my brother. Bad thing to kill your own brother with a brick. Besides, maybe I can heal him. Maybe I can find the one who knows how.”

“The last Csestriim,” Adare said.

Nira nodded. “The smart one. The one with the ideas.”

“And you think it's Vestan Ameredad?” Adare asked, shaking her head. “Why?”

The old woman frowned. “Nah. Not really. Been looking for a lot of years, and only had a couple of brushes ta show for it.”

“But why Vestan?”

Nira nodded, as though considering the question anew. “He's a meddler, this bastard I'm hunting. Meddled with me. Meddled with others. Likes to be near the center of the pile of shit. We weren't the only kings he propped up over the years, and if this Ameredad's fixing to topple your empire…” She shrugged. “I've walked across half a continent for less. 'Sides, sounds like he more or less fits the bill—tall, dark, unfunny, smart.”

Adare stared. “There must be a hundred men who fit the description. A thousand. If the Csestriim you're looking for cleaves to centers of power, why aren't you in Annur? Why aren't you in the Dawn Palace?”

Nira raised an eyebrow. “Just walk up ta the palace and batter at the door with m' cane? Is that it?” She shook her head. “Ain't as easy ta get in and out a' those nice red walls as ya think. 'Sides—Oshi and I just did a couple decades in Annur. Nothin' but burned rice and shit stink. It's in Olon that the pot's boilin' over, and so Olon's where we're goin'. Like I said, probably ain't Ameredad, but ya sit in one place too long, ya get old.”

Adare studied the woman. It seemed like a mad plan, crisscrossing the earth looking for the creature who had given them immortality, but then, the Atmani
were
mad. That was the one thing on which all the historians agreed.

“And if it
is
him? If the man leading the Sons of Flame is the one you're looking for? What then?”

“See if he can fix us.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Oshi. “Fix him.”

“And if he can't?”

“Kill him.”

“I need Ameredad,” Adare blurted. “I need the Sons of Light to overthrow il Tornja.”

“Well then,” Nira said, voice flat, hard, “you'd best hope he's not the one I'm looking for.”

 

18

Olon straddled the blue-brown shallows of the northern end of Lake Baku like a gracile thousand-legged spider of stone, her body an oblong island a few hundred paces offshore, her legs the narrow quays stretching into the shimmering water and the slender stone bridges reaching toward the north bank. Even seen through the blindfold, the narrow towers and shapely domes were far more elegant than Annur's stark angles and rigid lines, but Adare couldn't spare much attention for the architecture, not with two score armed men blocking the bridge on which she stood.

The men weren't uniformed, not that she could make out, anyway, but it was clear enough from the neat ranks, from the well-polished weapons and obvious military discipline that they weren't a band of thugs out to rob pilgrims. They might have been legionaries, only they weren't wearing imperial armor, and besides, none of the armies had a legion stationed in Olon. Which meant the Sons of Flame. Which meant the reports Adare had heard were true. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

She had thought, at first, that the men were just running a routine patrol on the bridge, checking carts and carriages, maybe strong-arming money out of the merchants, some sort of “levy” to support the faithful. As she approached, however, caught up in the knot of pilgrims, she realized they were waiting—forty or fifty of them, well-armed and alert—just waiting. Adare glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to find another army marching on the city, an attacking force that might warrant the presence of so many armed men, but there was no army. Only the stragglers of her own pilgrimage alongside a few local cart drivers lashing ponderous water buffalo.

“Looks as though the light lovers think they own the bridges,” Nira groused, spitting onto the flagstones.

Adare nodded nervously. She'd expected the Sons of Flame to be hidden away somewhere, holed up in alleys and cellars, not standing at attention athwart the main bridge into the city. Ameredad was either very bold, very stupid, or both. Such an open display of force risked the full retaliation of Annur, at least once il Tornja heard of it.

On the bright side,
she thought bleakly,
at least I don't need to go hunting around for them in the taverns. At least they're
here.

She reached up to adjust her blindfold, squared her shoulders, then moved forward with the mass of gold-robed faithful, just another pilgrim returning to the city where the faith was born. The soldiers, younger men mostly, some with onion-pale skin, others dark as charred wood, watched the throng approach. Adare waited for them to move aside, to allow the devout into the city, but they did not move. Instead, when the first wagons reached the height of the bridge, a broad-shouldered man with a neck like a dock piling stepped forward. He must have been well into his fifth decade, though the years had done nothing to chip away at the heavy muscle of his arms and chest.

“Stop,” he said, voice loud enough he didn't bother to raise a hand.

The pilgrimage clattered to a halt in a welter of confused questions, those behind demanding answers from their friends nearer the top of the bridge. Adare's hands were slippery with sweat. She forced herself to leave them at her side, not to wipe them on her robes. She felt light-headed, as though she might pass out. It would be a disaster, of course. If she fell, the pilgrims who came to her aid would remove the blindfold, and then she was dead.

Keep standing,
she told herself silently.
Stay on your 'Kent-kissing feet
.

The Sons of Flame hadn't moved, but their commander was running his gaze over the golden-robed men and women at the front of the line, his mouth twisted in a scowl.

“Where is the Malkeenian?” he asked finally.

Ice slid down Adare's spine. She wanted to flee and fight all at the same time. The bridge balustrade was only a few paces off. She couldn't see what lay beneath, but if she hurled herself off of it …

“Keep still, ya dumb wench,” Nira murmured, voice pitched for Adare's ears alone. “And keep your mouth shut.”

Legs trembling beneath her, Adare stood still, heart slamming against her ribs. Suddenly, her blindfold and backstory seemed pathetic, a flimsy shield against so many ideas, so many curious minds. Of
course
someone recognized her, recognized or suspected that the tall young woman traveling alone, the one hiding her eyes, might be more than she seemed. Despite Nira's admonition, Adare was ready to run, to leap into the lake below, when a strong hand took her by the elbow, the fingers like steel.

“What…” she cried, breaking off when she twisted to find Lehav holding her.

He smiled grimly. “Let's go.”

“I'm not—”

“Of course you're not,” he said, shoving her forward. “Let's go.”

Adare glanced over at Nira, hoping, praying that the woman might do something, but Nira just watched, eyes like slits in her wizened face, then gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

By the time Adare had recovered her wits enough to struggle, she stood in the wide space between the Sons of Flame and the pilgrims, Lehav still at her side, still holding her by the arm, his grip so tight she could feel the bruises forming. The bridge had gone silent. Hundreds of stares bored into her, most of them confused, some already angry. For a fleeting moment she thought she might be able to bluff her way through, then discarded the idea as stupidity, insanity. Somehow Lehav knew her, knew who she was. The only hope was to put a brave face on the thing, to do what she had come to do.

With her free hand she reached up and pulled the blindfold free.

“I am Adare hui'Malkeenian,” she said, “daughter of the murdered Emperor, princess of Annur, and the Minister of Finance. I have come here to set right a wrong, and to forge again a bond that has been broken between my family and the Divine Church of Intarra.”

The pilgrims stared, shocked. Even the soldiers looked somewhat taken aback. Lehav, however, just snorted.

“Nice speech. Are you finished?”

“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders, standing a little straighter. “I am not finished. I came to speak with Vestan Ameredad, not to be manhandled by one of his minions.”

The muscled soldier, the one who had first called out her name, laughed at that, a quick, scornful bark.

Adare turned on him, a queasy feeling in her gut. “You are Ameredad?” The man seemed brutish and ill-mannered, a poor combination, given what she hoped to achieve. At her question he just laughed harder.

“That's enough, Kamger,” Lehav said.

The man's laughter ended instantly.

Adare turned in horror, realizing her mistake, but the pilgrim she knew as Lehav ignored her, gesturing instead to the men and women he had walked alongside during the march south.