Veiled Empire Page 10

  He knew, now, what to use as inspiration.

  He dipped in and began.

  The true moon was several lengths above the horizon when he started, providing his only source of light. Voren left the other lightglobes in his chambers unlit; moonlight was the perfect reflection of his mood. He worked, pouring himself out onto the canvas, barely glancing at the square block of white. His brushes seemed to choose paints and dance across the surface of their own accord.

  When he finished, the moon had just ducked below the far eastern mountains. He sat back, panting, and allowed himself to view what he had just created. Or, tried to. It was too dark to make out more than vague impressions.

  Voren descended from his perch and returned half a mark later with a small lightglobe in hand. He sat down, tapping the globe to activate it. The painting sprang to life before his eyes.

  He rocked back. The stool tipped over, spilling him onto the floor. His torso hung over empty space, a drop of almost a dozen paces staring up at him. With care, he pulled himself back onto the stool and willed his eyes to gaze upon his creation.

  The backdrop was a desert. Dry, cracked clay. Barren. A harsh sun beat down. Voren could feel his throat becoming parched. In the center was a pale figure. Dark blue streaks, like floating tentacles, ran out from a round face, which was half-concealed in shadow. Globs of something tarry and black leaked down from its heart. The figure was crouching, holding hands to its ears.

  A hundred objects surrounded it. No—a thousand. Voren looked closer. His breath caught as he realized they were fingers, pointing at the figure in the center. Accusing. Angry. One had a body attached, with decidedly feminine features. Violet hair curled around a shoulder. A thick ray of light bent out from the sun, forming its own digit of blame, falling in brightness the farther it reached.

  Voren sat, paralyzed. Cold sweat formed on his brow. Breathing became difficult. Vision turned murky as drops flooded into his eyes.

  Too much. Too much at once.

  He knew of his own frailty. He had never been able to form for himself that shell of protection most people had. Things . . . got to him.

  Draevenus’s leaving, the emperor’s mockery, Lashriel’s reaction in the chamber, something going on that he had failed to unearth . . .

  Guilt.

  His people’s oldest stories, now considered fable or myth, told of a time when valynkar had been human. Then, touched by Elos and gifted with magic, wisdom, patience, and long life, transformed into beings of purest beauty. Almost like the story of the mierothi and their encounter with Ruul. Almost.

  Their particular form of remembrance had been instilled to prevent madness. For who could stay sane with a hundred lifetimes drifting through their head? Only at will could the oldest memories be brought to the forefront again. Then, once sorted through and dwelled upon, returned to their haven.

  Now, it seemed his own were leaking through to his waking mind. Long-buried guilt rested just below the surface, poking up without his guidance. Was it his conscience? Or his sanity? Both possibilities filled him with despair.

  And my art . . . It was the one thing left to him. The one thing that never failed to center him, to banish the specters of his worst fears and regrets. And now, it seemed, even that had been taken from him.

  Voren stood and lifted a hand. Began swinging it towards the painting.

  He stopped. What’s the point? The piece was merely a symptom. He was starting to obtain an understanding of the cause.

  Voren picked up the canvas and marched down to his bedchamber. He hung it on the wall, replacing a portrait of himself. It would serve as a reminder. In the coming days, he knew he would need it.

  Nothing new came to him. No plans. Not even the vague formation of an idea. He only knew that, somehow, something had to change.

  I will be powerless no more.

  MEVON AWOKE AS water was thrown at his head. He spluttered and shook, trying to banish the fat droplets swimming down his face. As his senses returned, he realized just how parched he was and instead held out his tongue to catch as much of the moisture as possible.

  Blessings did much for Hardohl, allowing them to push their bodies well past what would kill normal men. The basic requirements for food and water, however, were not among their many boons.

  Mevon tried to move but found that he couldn’t budge so much as a finger in any direction. He flexed against his bindings, rattling the loops of thick chain constricted around his body. A steel stake had been driven deep into the ground at his back, and the chains were attached to it.

  He blinked several times, adjusting his eyes to his surroundings. A dimly lit tent surrounded him. The same one we fought in? No, it was round and black. He searched, but could find nothing else in the room besides him, the stake and chains . . . and the bandit lords looking down on him with curious eyes.

  “You are one hard man to put down,” Slick Ren said.

  Mevon still felt the itch from when deadly poison had raged throughout his body. Slick Ren’s daggers had been coated in the stuff. The wounds had healed closed, and the poison was purged from his body by his blessings, but they had done their part. He had been weakened nearly to the point of death just long enough for his captors to strip him down to his breeches and bind him utterly.

  “You two,” Mevon said, glancing from Slick Ren to Derthon, “have made a grievous mistake.”

  “Only time will tell, of course,” said the woman. “Me? I’ll hold off judgment until this has all played out.”

  Mevon grunted. “You’re running out of time then, Slick Ren. My men are still out there, and a vast cordon of Imperial troops is tightening its grip on these hills as we speak.”

  She laughed. “Oh, the regulars won’t be giving us any trouble, I assure you. As for your men . . .” her eyes darted to Derthon. He held open a flap of the tent and motioned a group of figures inside. Nine men garbed as Imperial soldiers guiding three others in shackles. Idrus, Tolvar, and Arozir.

  Mevon studied them with wide eyes, a blade of ice stabbing between his shoulders.

  “Deepest apologies, Hardohl,” Idrus said. “Somehow, they knew our plans. They countered us perfectly.”

  “What happened? Where are the rest?”

  “Captured.” Tolvar spat at the feet of the bandit lords. “Every last one of us.”

  “They dug deep pits around the entire camp, then covered them with wood planks and sod,” Arozir said. “After we began our assault, the bastards pulled the logs out, and we were stranded on an island, surrounded by dozens of casters.”

  Mevon narrowed his gaze on Idrus. “Surely the rangers at least got away?”

  Idrus shook his head. “Turns out the tents they entered were empty save a lingering alchemical powder. One breath inside, and they each fell into sleep.”

  Mevon lowered his head, closing his eyes. “I see.”

  The prisoners and their guards shuffled out of the tent, and Mevon lost himself in thought.

  His plan, turned to ashes at first contact. It didn’t seem possible. It should have been the last thing his enemy suspected, but they knew just how to counter it. Not just blunted, or even rebuffed, but turned on its scorching head.

  Jasside. That woman. She was to blame. Her bad acting had turned out to be brilliant. It had convinced Mevon that her faith in her allies was a deliberate charade, when that was exactly what she had wanted him to think. He hated her. Hated being manipulated. Hated the golden man and the bandit lords and the greybeard and all who followed them.

  But mostly, he hated himself.

  Possibly the first lesson he received, even before teachings on justice and obedience, was that defeat was intolerable and failure worse than death. He had held that lesson close, wrapping it around his soul. He viewed the entire world through lenses made of the certainty of victory. Not once had the glass shattered.

>   Until now.

  “So,” he whispered, “this is what failure feels like.”

  He couldn’t stand it. How he wished he could get ahold of a blade. Something sharp and pointed, so he could throw himself on it. Such was as he deserved.

  It didn’t seem like he would get the chance. Nor could he even fight back. He had barely enough room to breathe, and his limbs were twisted in such a way that he had no leverage, no way to even begin breaking free so that he could fight, dying if he had to but taking his price in blood even as he fell.

  He had only one choice left to him, really. They had kept him and his men alive for a reason. He might as well find out what they wanted.

  The tent flap opened again and three now-familiar figures strode in.

  GILSHAMED KEPT HIS eyes locked on Mevon as he entered the tent. Yandumar stepped through on his left, his eyes wide, face strained with his efforts at self-control. On his right came Jasside.

  She stopped on the threshold, shaking. She stared at Mevon a few beats in silence.

  “Jasside?” Gilshamed asked. “Is everything all right?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I just . . . can’t. I’m sorry.”

  She turned and fled from the tent.

  “Wait—”

  Yandumar grasped his arm and turned him back. “She’s had a rough month. Let her be.”

  Gilshamed took a breath and nodded. “Very well.” He turned his gaze to Slick Ren and Derthon. “Some privacy, please?”

  “He’s all yours,” Slick Ren said. The siblings slipped out of the tent, letting the flap swing down behind them.

  A moment began that stretched in time, in which he and Yandumar examined Mevon, and the Hardohl them. None spoke. None moved. Barely a breath could be heard as the smell of mingled sweat filled the close confines.

  At last, Gilshamed cleared his throat. “Mevon Daere, it is good to finally meet you. Especially now that you are no longer trying to kill us.”

  “Oh, I’m still trying to kill you, but you seem quite adept at turning my efforts”—he shook the chains holding him—“into dust.”

  Gilshamed laughed at that, and Mevon returned a look of incredulity. If he’s skeptical of my amusement, then this will really turn his world around. He turned, indicating his companion. “This is Yandumar, a former Elite captain under the Hardohl Kael.”

  This introduction had the desired effect. Mevon eyes flashed wide, blazing scrutiny on Yandumar.

  “My name is Gilshamed, of the valynkar.”

  Somehow, Mevon’s eyes widened even further. “Impossible. The Shroud—”

  “Has been pierced,” he said, smiling. “Just not from the outside.”

  Mevon regarded him, staring murder for several beats before answering. “I’ve heard rumors of a . . . tunnel?”

  “Yes, far to the northwest of here, buried deeply underground. It seems your empire is no longer content with ruling only this land.” Gilshamed waved his hand wide. “But that is not why we are here.”

  “Why then?”

  Gilshamed smiled. “We are here for you.”

  He was expecting a series of possible reactions from Mevon upon hearing this. A shrug, however, was not among them. Gilshamed narrowed his eyes, searching the Hardohl’s face for clues to his inner self.

  Despite nearly four millennia of practice, he could discern nothing.

  Eventually, though, Mevon sneered at him. “Your pawn of a sorceress has already made that clear. What do you want with me, then?”

  “We wish to recruit you to our cause, of course.”

  Mevon’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, and Gilshamed felt himself mimicking the reflex. The moment hung like a slice of frozen time.

  Mevon’s laughter shattered the ice.

  Gilshamed turned to Yandumar, hoping to find . . . something. An answer, perhaps. Hope. All he saw was despair as the Hardohl bellowed, sucking in another lungful of air to lend continued exuberance to his cackling.

  Finally, the laughter tapered off. Gilshamed drew himself up straight. “I can see why that amuses you. You are the empire’s most fearsome instrument of death, after all, held in high regard even among your peers. By all accounts, you are a man who not only excels at killing but also thrives on it. What reason could you possibly have to turn against the mierothi?”

  Mevon arched an eyebrow. “Is this what all of Jasside’s babble was about? Were her words somehow supposed to prepare me to accept your offer? Gods, what fools you are.”

  “No, Mevon.” Gilshamed leaned forward. “She was merely meant to make you ready to listen.”

  “That so? Well, here I am. Say what you have to so we can be done with this charade.”

  “No.” Gilshamed placed a hand on Yandumar’s shoulder. “It will not be I who convinces you of anything.”

  YANDUMAR STARED AT Mevon, motionless. You’ve waited long enough, Yan. Don’t screw this up.

  His gaze must have lingered too long. Mevon’s face grew impatient. “Well, old man?”

  Yandumar took a deep breath.

  “Thirty years ago, I was an Elite captain, serving under Kael. You knew him well.”

  “Yes,” said Mevon, as if it had been a question. “He was like a father to me.”

  “If so, then I’m glad. Old bastard owed me a favor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was only twenty-two at the time. Gods, how naïve I was back then . . .” he trailed off, closing his eyes as memory took hold. He could smell the burning flesh, taste the blood and salt of his tears. “Our Fist was out on assignment, tracking down Sanction violators who had been hiding out up north near the Taditali vineyards. It was in the hottest time of year, in the hottest part of the empire. We had all been taking a break in the shade. A messenger came for me. Told me I had visitors, sent by the emperor himself. I was nothing special. No reason to have that tyrant’s attention. I should have known what was coming. But I went. Alone, as instructed. Still armed and armored, though. Scorching scale-backs were too arrogant to think that little detail could make a difference.”

  Yandumar opened his eyes. Mevon’s gaze was locked with his, and he seemed scarcely to be breathing. Good. At least he was paying attention.

  Yandumar continued. “Three daeloth greeted me, there in that lonely glade. They were adjudicators, and their message was simple: Your wife and two oldest children are dead, and now . . . it’s your turn.” He saw the question in Mevon’s face. “Why? My wife was pregnant, full term, and . . .” he paused, struggling, “ . . . not a lick of sorcery could touch either mother or baby.”

  Yandumar watched Mevon’s face, saw the wheels turning behind those green eyes. Eyes so very like his own.

  “I discovered what Imperial doctrine was regarding voids that day: taking them—taking you—to be trained in their academy, turned into loyal killers. But those daeloth discovered something else: how terrible a father’s rage can be. It was their final lesson.”

  Mevon opened his mouth, but it was several moments before words came out. “Are . . . are you saying . . . ?”

  “Yes . . . son. I am.” Yandumar stepped forward with an iron key in his hand. He put it to the locks securing Mevon’s chains. “And I will prove it to you.”

  It took longer than he expected. The chains were wrapped tightly around the majority of his body and were meant to hold against the strength of a Hardohl. When the last link fell to the ground, so did Mevon, slumping. Denying him food and water had been necessary, but Yandumar still cringed as Mevon—My son!—struggled to keep from collapsing.

  He moved forward again to help Mevon stand.

  Mevon grasped his tunic, pulling himself up. He stood still. Caught his breath.

  He pushed Yandumar away violently and scrambled for the exit. Gilshamed stepped aside. Yandumar hurried out after him.

&
nbsp; WHAT?

  Mevon stared. There were no guards encompassing the tent. No wall of steel and flesh to keep him contained. He almost felt insulted.

  He could see his men though, disarmed and sitting under guard a hundred paces away. Intact, as his captains had said. He wasn’t sure if they had been forced to lie on that point. Not that he expected them to.

  Something else stood closer. He had dismissed it at first. It didn’t make sense. Quake was saddled and ready, and a soldier held out the reins in Mevon’s direction.

  “You can go, if you want,” Yandumar said behind him.

  Mevon spun. “What game are you playing?”

  “No game.” Gilshamed emerged from the tent but stayed well out of the way and remained silent. Yandumar took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of peace. “We won’t stop you and your men from leaving. But first, will you hear one more thing?”

  Mevon grabbed the reins and shoved the soldier away. “What can you possibly say that would convince me to join you?” The words came out in a shriek. What is happening to me?

  “Just this.” Yandumar took one last pause, a deep breath. “Ragremos Remembers.”

  A hammerblow seemed to crush the air from Mevon’s chest. His blood turned colder than the Frozen Fingers of the deep south. His eyeballs threatened to pop out of his skull.

  “Where?” said Mevon. “How?”

  “You were eighteen,” Yandumar said. “At your graduation. Kael handed you your Andun, then leaned in, and whispered, ‘Tell no one, and never forget these words.’ Then, he said, ‘Ragremos Remembers.’ He said that because I asked him to. Because I couldn’t be there to say the words myself.”

  Mevon heard a rumble rise from behind him. It was faint at first, only a few voices. They had heard what Yandumar had said, and now repeated the words.

  “Ragremos Remembers. Ragremos Remembers.”

  It continued, becoming a chant and rising in volume. He thought he recognized some of the voices.

  “Don’t you see, son?” continued Yandumar. “All of this has been for you.” He stepped up to Mevon and laid a hand on his shoulder, locking eyes. Eyes an identical shade of green as his. The face an aged mirror of his own.