Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Raul
A s soon as I’ve finished gulping down my lunch, I take the opportunity to wander away from the carriage our blasted emperor assigned me to today. The company has hardly been “inspiring,” as he suggested with that manic glint in his eyes.
If I’m going to get through the rest of the day on the road to Rexoran without stabbing one of my noble companions, I need to make a little progress toward that later date when I never have to put up with this shit again.
I pretend I’m simply stretching my legs and shaking off the stiffness of the last three days of travel. I do actually need the effort—when I roll my shoulders, the muscles on my back twinge where the bear tore its jaws through me. The ache in my thigh where its claws gouged my flesh hasn’t totally faded either.
Every pang sets my teeth a little more on edge with a burn of humiliation under my skin. Marclinus decided not just to have me perform but to use me as a demonstration of his empire’s might, the fucking prick. I’d like to demonstrate my might by shoving his crown down his throat.
Of course, his guards would intervene before I could so much as lay a finger on him. So I’ll have to continue taking a page out of Aurelia’s book and find my more subtle means of undermining him.
This waystation is along a particularly colorful stretch of terrain, bright green leaves of bushy trees standing out against the low pinkish-yellow cliffs that jut up here and there farther off. After the fuss at the bridge during our last journey, the soldiers have ordered all of the people from the nearby town to stick to their own streets, other than the handful of workers who are assisting with the meal preparation and clean up.
Halfway along our convoy, many of the soldiers are hanging around outside the main waystation building—a long, low structure of the same pinkish-yellow stone. The sigil of Jurnus marks the lintel, with mosaics of soaring gulls and diving whales decorating patches of the walls.
The godlen of travel isn’t the only one honored at this spot. Not far from the waystation’s entrance, a fountain dedicated to Sabrelle burbles with water from a small spring. A sculpture of the godlen poses amid the current, brandishing a shield and sword.
Perfect. I can make excellent use of that.
I amble toward the fountain, but before I’ve made it past more than a couple of carriages, the exact asshole I’m least enthusiastic to see strolls into my path.
Marclinus grins at me with a sly cock of his head that sets me twice as on guard. The two barons who were trotting at his heels fall silent in eager curiosity.
“Ah, prince of Lavira,” the emperor says in a blasé tone. “ You must be getting impatient to find yourself close to home again.”
The city of Rexoran isn’t too far off from the border between Dariu and Lavira, but it’s still a fair trek from there to our capital where anyone I know resides. I doubt Marclinus is going to give me leave to take a week-long detour.
I dip my head in a little bow that only I know is mocking. “It’s nice to see familiar terrain, but I’m more interested in finding out what Creaden’s challenge entails.”
Marclinus chuckles. “You can be sure I’ll conquer it. And while I’m up there, perhaps I’ll settle the empire’s latest conquering of your people once and for all. Maybe I should send you across the border to teach the rebels a lesson with your swordplay—just as long as you don’t run into any bears.”
Both of the marchions break into chuckles of their own. I smile thinly, my hand aching with the urge to ram the dagger I’m carrying into their guts, right where it would mean slow, agonizing pain before death.
In the back of my head, I send up a prayer to my own chosen godlen. Kosmel, let me stay as stealthy and discreet as you can be. Let me hide my anger so well they never see it.
The thought of all the power I hold that’s unknown to them steadies me. My hand relaxes at my side.
I very considerately refrain from stabbing anyone.
Our merciless emperor isn’t being anywhere near that considerate with Lavira’s citizens. I’ve tried not to picture the slaughter he’s ordered back home to punish my people for the brewing rebellion.
How many of those he’s had tortured and murdered were totally innocent? How many simply justified in their anger against the empire?
There’s nothing I can do to stop the carnage. If anything, he’ll take any rebelliousness I show as an excuse to come down on them even harder. But I’m not powerless, as my appeal to my godlen just reminded me.
I’ll simply hit him in ways he never expects, as I intend to right now.
I nod to Marclinus again and move to step around his little entourage. “I serve my empire as I’m able.”
As I veer around the nearer man, I cast a thread of my awareness into the shadows woven through his clothing. My lips tug into a wider smirk. “That’s quite the stash of hazebloom you have on you, Baron. I hope you don’t find our emperor’s company so dull as to need all that enhancement.”
I leave the baron sputtering and Marclinus turning on him with an arch of his eyebrows. If the vapid fool does need to smoke a little of that elating drug from time to time to put up with imperial obnoxiousness, I can’t actually blame him.
Meandering on toward the cluster of soldiers around the fountain, I notice a figure approaching from the opposite direction. Lorenzo catches my gaze for just a second with a brief flick of his fingers by his side. Talking to the kitchen.
He means he’s going to use his gift to nudge the locals in an ideal direction. He’ll send out an illusionary murmur or two speaking Aurelia’s praises to get the bunch in there chattering along the same line.
Excellent. While he’s building loyalty to our empress with the common folk, I’ll steer our military men and women farther along the right path.
I circle the fountain, giving the soldiers gathered in front of it a wide berth, and sink down on the rim at the far side as if resting my legs. When I dip my fingers into the warm water, I can grasp hold of the shadow that drapes across its rippling surface.
Grasp hold and meld its shape to my will .
The soldiers are nattering about some new stallion added to the cavalry’s stables and who’ll get to claim it. I wait until one of them motions toward the fountain’s statue. “Maybe better we leave it up to our godlen of battle, huh?”
As several of the glances flick toward the representation of Sabrelle, I push my will through the shadow.
I can’t see it directly, but the picture I’m creating forms in my mind’s eye: a faint silhouette of a feminine figure in a crown cast across the statue behind the shield, as similar to Aurelia’s looks as I can make such a vague depiction.
I only let it linger for a moment before I release the shadows to fall back into their usual patches.
One of the soldiers has grunted; another inhales with a hitch. “That was—did you see that?”
“What?” asks one of the women who I suppose hadn’t been looking.
Another soldier speaks up in an awed tone. “I think it was a sign from Sabrelle. For a second it looked as if her statue was embracing the empress—shielding her.”
I hold back my satisfied smile and keep sitting there as if I haven’t even noticed their conversation. The reverent murmurs continue for several more exchanges, discussing how much strength Aurelia has shown in the rites so far.
“We’ll have to see how she fares in Sabrelle’s rite at the end,” one concludes, but it’s clear they’ve taken the supposed vision of support to heart. Gods willing, gossip about the incident will spread through their ranks.
Every bit of good will we can generate for our empress gets us a little closer to our goals. With luck, Lorenzo has stirred up more enthusiasm on his end as well.
One of the captains calls to the cluster of soldiers to prepare to move out. As they scatter to their positions and their steeds, I push to my feet.
When I come around the fountain, my feet jar to a stop. Neven is walking briskly toward me—heading for his own carriage, presumably.
The kid hesitates at the sight of me, his tan face flushing slightly beneath his white-blond hair. I’ve been trying to have a conversation with the prince of Goric since his stupid performance in the exhibition a few days ago, but he’s been dodging me and surrounding himself with other nobles at every turn.
He’s not getting away with avoiding me this time.
I stride over and grasp his arm to tug him back around the fountain, where we’ll have a tiny bit of privacy. Neven’s jaw sets, but he follows me without struggling.
As soon as we’re out of view of most of the convoy, I let go, mainly so I can toss my hand in the air in a gesture of frustration.
I manage to keep my voice low, but it comes out in a growl. “What the fuck were you thinking, joining the exhibition? You could have gotten yourself killed. Do you really want to do that to your parents?”
The kid’s chin juts out even more defiantly. “I didn’t, though, did I?”
“You couldn’t have known that. You can never totally predict what’ll happen in the arena.” I drop my voice even lower. “Look what that prick did to me.”
His expression twitches, the only sign that the raging bear’s attack frightened him. “He made sure you survived. He needs us.”
“Not that much, as you well know.” I don’t have to remind him what happened to his brother.
Neven squares his shoulders and aims an even more defiant glare at me. “You’ve been fighting in the arena for years. If you can take the chance, why shouldn’t I?”
“I trained by sparring with the soldiers and practice animals for years before that. You’ve only done the basics. And I was older than you for my first exhibition.”
“I’m more ambitious, then.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but his refusal to listen to reason unnerves me at least as much as it angers me. “What’s going on, Neven? You’re throwing yourself into the arena, chatting up high commanders, shutting the rest of us out… If you’ve got a problem, we’re the ones you should be coming to.”
“Why?” Neven demands. “Working together hasn’t gotten us anywhere in all this time. And now we can hardly talk anyway. The three of you like to make your own plans. I’ve got to do something for myself.”
I knit my brow. “We don’t bring you in on every single thing because we’re trying to keep you safe. We all have our own concerns that we don’t involve everyone with. You can have yours. I just want to know why it’s this .”
Why is he playing into the empire’s hands? Getting chummy with the higher powers and showing off in front of them?
Neven’s hand darts down his front in a hasty gesture of the divinities. “You believe in stealth, and Bastien wants to talk everything through, and Lorenzo just plays his music. I’m supposed to be the might. I have… I have a duty to find out where my strength can take me.”
Something about his phrasing and his appeal to the gods niggles at me. I glance at the statue I just manipulated to my ends and back at my younger foster brother, an uneasy inkling rising up in my mind.
“You think this is what Sabrelle wants.”
He’s dedicated to the warrior godlen, sacrificed most of the teeth in his face to her for his gift, getting the painful steel replacements. I’ve never seen him cater to her inclinations quite this much, though .
Neven crosses his arms over his chest. “I know it’s what she wants. She showed me that I need to step up. I don’t need you looking out for me when my godlen is pointing me in the right direction.”
Before I can say anything else, a sharp bellow calls any lingering nobles to return to their carriages. Neven spins on his heel and hurries off without another word.
I head to my own vehicle, my stomach sinking. I don’t know what Sabrelle conveyed to the kid by sign or dream or whatever other means, but I can already tell I don’t like it at all.
How in the realms are any of us going to convince him to listen to us over a god?