Veiled Empire Page 4

  That will do you no good, my little friends.

  Vashodia spoke, and though her voice seemed that of a young girl—matching her face and the size of her body—her tone left no doubt that she was, in fact, commanding.

  “Come, darkwisps.

  “Come, death-sighs of watered souls.

  “Come, machines of a sundered past.”

  Vashodia paused and giggled once more.

  “Come to your new home, you naughty little things.”

  The spheres opened up, revealing a hollow center. The mass of sparking creatures began slowly descending, contracting.

  “Are you watching?” she said. “Ruul? Elos? Can you see?”

  Darkwisps now flowed like a stream into the spheres.

  “Ah, but what use is sight if you are lacking in vision?”

  They drew in on themselves, collapsing into a point like a flake of ash, and huddled inside.

  “And so, the first day ends. A day long striven for. And all the boys and girls dance to every twitch upon their strings. But who holds those strings?”

  The spheres reached their capacity and closed. The remaining darkwisps scuttled away, as if in relief that they had escaped her prison. This time, anyway.

  “NO ONE!”

  The spheres jumped to her hands and disappeared once more into the pockets of her robes.

  Finally, she whispered, “And isn’t that the cruelest joke of all.”

  Chapter 2

  MEVON STARED AT the back of the sorceress’s green robe, stained now by dirt and sweat. The summer still held strong this far north, and despite the high elevation of the mountain passes, the past two days of riding had seen them all drenched and reeking by noon. Now, as they left behind the narrow trails and descended onto plains of ochre grasses, the days would grow even warmer, and the welcome gusts of glacial wind would cease.

  The Fist spread out, like fingers long clenched now unfolding. Mevon could see the tension wane as the men expanded into a broad circle, each mounted man now with room to breathe without fear of inhaling someone else’s stench. Quake, his loyal draft horse, tossed his ash-colored mane in approval.

  He and his captains stayed in the center. Ahead of them rode four of his Elite, crossbows held in a manner that would only seem casual to the untrained eye. Between them, the sorceress. His low-burning fury flared as he watched her sway on her borrowed horse.

  Her arms were tied behind her. Dirty blond hair fell down her back, straight and long. No one would ever call her fat, but her short, plump form hinted at a softness that he did not consider unpleasant. Nothing about her seemed threatening in the least.

  Still, Mevon had yet to speak to her.

  He was not a slave to fear, as so many were. No, that had been beaten out of him at a young age by his masters. Once he learned just how little anyone—casters especially—could do to harm him, fear became a thing only the weak knew.

  He had been four when he first witnessed the death of a sorcerer. The man had been pitted against one of the older students. A test for one, a lesson for the rest. Mevon never forgot what he saw that day, and spent every moment of the next six years in eager anticipation of his own trial. His first kill. And in the thousand since then, his courage had not faltered. Not even once.

  Until now.

  She was . . . impossible. A caster’s inability to directly affect a Hardohl was one of the few truths he knew to be indisputable. What had she done? How had she done it? Why had she done it to him—he felt sure he had been specifically targeted. What possible repercussions would there be for his kind, and the empire, if her secret was revealed? Mevon shuddered. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers.

  He had two days to decide. By then, they’d be in Thorull, and she’d be taken out of his hands to be executed.

  And Mevon, for the first time in his life, did not know what to do.

  He stared at the woman’s back and let his rage boil.

  “Planning on shaving with that, Mevon?” asked Tolvar, riding up on his side.

  Mevon jerked in his saddle. “What?” He followed his captain’s gaze down to where his own hand rested, knuckles white over the handle of one dagger. Somehow, he had drawn it without realizing.

  “I think not,” said Arozir. He gestured ahead to the sorceress. “I would bet he means to finish what that blade began.”

  The weapon was the very same one Mevon had used to kill the sorcerer. He did his best to ignore the amused faces of his captains as he slammed the dagger back into its sheath. “Why I ever chose you two, I’ll never know. At least Idrus pretends a little respect.”

  The ranger captain shrugged.

  “We were a package deal, that’s why,” Tolvar said. “Being cousins, ’n’ all.”

  “And a bargain at that,” added Arozir.

  “Only cost a few drops of that precious Hardohl blood to seal the deal.”

  “Though quite a bit more of ours.”

  Mevon remember the day of their trial well. He’d already trounced several applicant groups without a scratch, and had nearly given up on finding suitable men to join as his personal Elite. These three changed all that. Unarmed, he had faced them, and Idrus had managed to break his skin with a well-timed dagger throw. Such a move was only possible because Tolvar and Arozir, abandoning all sense of self-preservation, had thrown themselves at Mevon, wrapping themselves around his legs to keep him distracted.

  “Aye. But it sure was worth it, eh?”

  “Of course, Tolvar,” Arozir said. “The last twelve years we spent sloughing through the woods, chasing criminals, and fighting off insects would have been so different from our fate had we remained in the army.”

  “Exactly. We’d have been doing all that, only without this fancy armor.”

  “And fancy weapons.”

  “And fancy women.”

  “And—wait. What women?”

  As the two devolved into an argument over pay grades and the price of a “lady’s” company, Idrus leaned in and whispered in Mevon’s ear, “Let me remind you, though close relations to each other, they are rather distant from me.”

  “No reminder is needed,” Mevon told him.

  The truth of that was evident enough. Where Idrus was tall, lithe, and dark-haired, the other two were stocky, with heads topped by curly flame-red hair.

  “Oh, come now,” Arozir still argued with Tolvar. “You know the real reason we joined the Elite was because of the daeloth.”

  “Of course it was. Idiots couldn’t strategize their way out of a stack of hay.”

  “And we’d much rather hunt casters down . . .”

  “ . . . than take orders from them.”

  Mevon grunted agreement.

  “It’s no wonder the empire has such a problem with bandits,” said Arozir. “From lowest lieutenant to the supreme arcanod himself, the army’s officers have failed to embrace what should be common sense to any fighting man.”

  Tolvar grinned. “ ‘Know your enemy, else fall prey to the unseen danger.’ ”

  To this, even Idrus acknowledged agreement.

  Mevon sighed. As ridiculous as his captains’ talk was, it had clarified much for him. He knew what he needed to do.

  He tapped his heels into Quake’s flanks, urging his mount into a trot. The four Elite nodded at Mevon as he drew close.

  “Give me a moment,” Mevon said. “It’s time she and I had a . . . chat.”

  “Aye,” they called. They flashed him knowing smirks and rode off to join the perimeter.

  Mevon was alone with the sorceress, for the first time since she . . .

  He shook his head and took one last look around to make sure no prying ears were in range. He had prepared a series of questions, but as he drew alongside her, they vanished from his mind. His pulse quickened as he remembered the image of h
er body standing, arms raised and holding her spell over him. Of his face pressed into the moist soil.

  Of his weakness.

  He leaned towards her, heat rising. “What did you do to me, woman?”

  She swung her head to face him, took a deep breath, and smiled. “Jasside,” she said. “Jasside Anglasco.” She looked away, nose in the air—like she was a lady of some merchant family and offended by his presence. “Since you didn’t bother to even ask my name, why should I bother answering you?”

  “Because I can make your life very . . . unpleasant while you’re in my care.”

  “Could you?” She leaned back, as if to get a more thorough view. She studied him, her eyes like honey on burnt bread, and twisted her plump lips in a gesture that said “unimpressed.” “Being a killer is one thing, even if you enjoy it. But a torturer? Rapist? Murderer? I’d think even you would hesitate to cross those lines.”

  He clenched his jaw. “Three days ago, you would have been right.” He spied her neck, so pale and fragile. He fought the urge to snap it like a twig. His hand twitched towards her, and he had to concentrate to keep from reaching out. “But I’ve learned things about myself since then. Now . . . ? Who knows what I’m capable of?”

  He heard her sniff sharply. Ah, am I getting through to you now?

  Jasside dipped her head. “Very well. I will tell you what you wish to know.”

  Mevon waited, shaking, and hated her all the more for it.

  “Your blessings,” she said. “I presume you know how they work?”

  “How? No, not exactly. I just know they make it easier for me to do my job.”

  “Easier to kill others, you mean. Easier to live through injuries that would claim the lives of ordinary men.”

  “Yes—fine. What of it?”

  She hid her face from him. In a whisper so low Mevon wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it, she said, “Children with the power of gods . . . is there anything more horrifying?”

  Jasside turned back. Unshed tears pooled in her eyes. Her lips quivered with an emotion Mevon knew well: rage. He looked down at the dagger in his hand, which had again removed itself from its sheath without his realizing.

  Of course. The sorcerer.

  “Your partner,” Mevon said, “the one I killed. What was he to you?”

  She trembled, sending a single tear down her freckled cheek. “He was my half brother. Though, we grew up together after—” She choked off her speech. Her jaw set, and she plunged forward without further hesitation. “But you were asking about your blessings. Well, when I was a little girl—”

  Mevon clamped his hand down on her upper arm. She let out a sound like the squeak of a dying mouse. “Stop dissembling,” he said. “Tell me what I want to know.”

  Jasside glanced frantically from his hand to his eyes as her breath became short and labored. Most casters panicked when cut off from their power, so her reaction didn’t surprise him. He held her a few beats more, just to get his point across, before letting go.

  “There is a gap in your natural defense against sorcery,” she said, breathlessly. “And your blessings are the gateway.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  ‘Then think, Mevon, for once in your life. And don’t just bark the explanations given to you by those holding your leash.”

  “Watch your tongue, sorceress, else I’ll rip it out.”

  She raised her chin. “Then my secrets die with me. If I’m on my way to die anyway, it’s no burden for me to ride in silence the rest of the way.”

  Mevon, summoning willpower from the depths of his soul, slowly sheathed the dagger. “Abyss take you, woman.” But he did wave for her to continue.

  A look of satisfaction crossed her features but vanished quickly. She shrugged. “That’s all I know, really. You’re more familiar with the blessing process than I. You figure it out.”

  Her advice seemed genuine, even heartfelt, and he surprised himself by taking it.

  For once, he thought.

  Blessings were first bestowed upon infants within days of arrival at the Hardohl academy. They manifested as visual markings upon the back: white rose and black thorns. There was more, Mevon knew, something about blood binding and subdermal inscriptions, but he had never cared to pay attention to the specifics.

  He only knew that two men prepared and bestowed every single blessing.

  Emperor Rekaj, and his pet valynkar, Voren.

  Does one of them know about this weakness? Or, worse . . . had they put it there?

  Mevon clenched his jaw and narrowed his gaze on Jasside. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

  She smiled. “I saw someone else do it first. And I am a fast learner.”

  “Who?”

  “A mierothi. I never learned her name, but I watched as she was attacked by a Hardohl and did . . . what I did to you.”

  “Who was she? What did she look like?”

  “She was short, almost childlike. And she had an amused if somewhat cruel smile on her face.”

  Mevon cringed. All Hardohl had a standing order to kill on sight one particular mierothi. He had no idea what she had done to earn the emperor’s ire, but he knew more than one of his peers had disappeared after chasing rumors of her whereabouts. He knew her, even if Jasside did not.

  Vashodia.

  If she knows, then . . . who else? All of the mierothi?

  More questions than he had begun with swirled around in his head. More fears. The possible implications of this knowledge. . .

  No. He was letting his thoughts run wild, chasing darkwisps into the Chasm. He would do nothing until he knew more. But how could he? Who could he ask? They would put him on the Ropes for voicing the least of his questions.

  He had no choice. He would keep silent.

  And Jasside? Well, as she said, her silence was soon guaranteed to be permanent.

  A FETID MIST drifted up from bog, coating skin and bark alike in its slick stench. Yandumar didn’t mind, though, since the Imperial forces sent against them skirted the patch of marshland. Just as he had predicted.

  Imperial tactics haven’t changed much since I’ve been gone. Thank God for small blessings.

  Yandumar lifted up from his crouch, wincing as his knees cracked. He knew it was a good thing he had found Gilshamed when he had. Another few years, and his old bones wouldn’t have enough fight left in them to see this through. Not that such a thing would have stopped him. He took a vow, after all. And a vow made by one of his people never went unfulfilled.

  But it would have been much more uncomfortable.

  He glanced over at the valynkar, who stood with eyes closed, still as stone. With hair an impossibly golden gold, and skin so perfect it looked like porcelain, the unfamiliar observer would be hard-pressed to tell him apart from a statue. Yandumar had often seen him like that at night. Conserving his energy. He could still cast without the sun, it just took more out of him.

  The Timid Moon flared to life above them. Gilshamed opened his eyes. “It is time,” he said.

  Yandumar ran his fingers through the grey beard hanging to the middle of his chest. “Right. So, how’s this going to work again?”

  Gilshamed shot his head over, locking his eerie golden eyes on him. “Did you not pay attention when I explained to the others?”

  “I was listening—I promise I was! But all that wizardry talk sounds like monkey babble to me. No offense.”

  Gilshamed sighed. “Very well. I shall endeavor to explain in terms even a monkey could understand.”

  “Ha! Fair enough.”

  Gilshamed pointed to the object in Yandumar’s hand, a metal sphere. It had a band around it with a hinge on one side and a clasp on the other. “That is our link.” Gilshamed held up his own hand, which held an identical device. “So long as we both have possession of t
hese, I will be able to direct my sorcery on you, as if you were me.”

  “All right, I think I got that part. What exactly will you be doing, though?”

  “I will maintain several effects at once, actually. First will be what I call ‘light bending,’ which will render you all but invisible. Second, a set of temporary blessings, granting you strength, speed, agility—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what blessings do. What else?”

  “Must you always interrupt?”

  “Only when you’re boring.”

  “In that case, you can stay ignorant of the last, possibly lifesaving boon I plan on granting you.”

  “That’s fine. I remember what this one is.”

  “Do you now?”

  “A shield against sorcery, right?”

  “Well, something like that, yes. I must warn you though—the protection will not be absolute.”

  “Knowing you, it will be more than enough. And then some.”

  “Either way, it is best to be quick about your . . . tasks.”

  “Ha! No need to coat it in honey. We’re about the business of murder tonight.”

  “Assassination. There is a difference.”

  “Only in motivation. I’m sure their corpses won’t care about the distinction.”

  “We can argue semantics all night, but I would rather we get started soon. The other groups will begin their attacks shortly, and synchronizing our efforts is paramount to success.”

  Yandumar smiled. “You love this, don’t you? Being able to cast again at will?” He didn’t blame the ancient sorcerer. He felt just as elated, if for different reasons.

  “I admit to a certain enjoyment of this new freedom. Since we destroyed the voltensus, the empire cannot now see or track our activities. I intend to exploit that advantage to its fullest.”

  “Right, then. Seems like we got us some daeloth to kill.”

  Yandumar stood and drew a pair of bastard swords from their scabbards seated crosswise on his back. He shared in Gilshamed’s eagerness. After so long waiting, drawing steel against his enemy had never felt better.