Veiled Empire (10 page)

Chapter 6

“W
ILL
YOU
BE
needing any more of my services?”

Voren, sprawled sideways in a chair, looked up from his wineglass. The courtesan stood near the door of his chambers. She leaned toward the exit, lips pressed into a thin line. Voren didn’t blame her for wanting to depart so quickly. He had used her more roughly than normal.

He waved absently and turned back to his drink once more. The door opened, then slammed shut behind him.

Voren sighed. She had been a welcome distraction, but no woman’s charms could hold his dread at bay for long. Neither could the wine. Even the exhaustion generated by vigorous exercise did little to keep his mind from dwelling on things he would rather forget.

He drained his cup and reached for the bottle. It was empty. And the last one he had in his chambers. He hadn’t the patience to send for another. Besides, he knew there was only one thing that could truly bring him solace.

Voren stood and walked towards his closet of artistic supplies, only slightly unsteady on his feet. He pulled open the folding doors and stepped inside. The lightglobe spread its illumination; one of his own creations, not the hideous blue- or purple-hued imitations made by dark-blooded casters. Shelves line the walls, filled with paint jars and sketching tools, blank canvas, brushes in a hundred varieties. More. The sight of it all put a small surge of joy within him.
Yes. This will do the trick. It always has.

He picked colors at random. He grabbed easel and canvas, a handful of brushes, and marched up to his perch.

Night held. Moonlight slanted across the land, casting long shadows.
What time is it?

The answer came as a small round light blossomed before his eyes, outshone by the true moon but brighter than any star. The Timid Moon was an object of much debate. The valynkar claimed it was the Eye of Elos, opening to peer upon the planet. The people of the empire mostly ignored it. The nation of Panisalhdron declared the time during which it was visible the period of truest beauty and inspiration. The land of Sceptre had several rude gestures reserved exclusively for its arrival.

Voren stood, enraptured, lost in the sight. He lost track of time. Finally, the Timid Moon sputtered and winked out. Voren shook himself, unsure where the two tolls had gone, and finished setting up.

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.

M
EVON
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.

G
ILSHAMED
KEPT
H
IS
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.