Chapter 15
15
A S THE SECOND bell of Eventoll rang through the palace, Kanthe sank gratefully into the steaming stone bath. Soothing salts and other alchymical compounds had been ladled into the waters, along with redolent perfumes. He didn’t know if any of it was efficacious in healing his wounds, only that the salt burned all the scrapes and cuts that he had sustained from the ambush.
Still, he lowered himself with a grimace until only his face remained above water. He stared up at the dozens of oil lanterns hanging overhead, all aglow, casting flickering beams through starlike perforations in the tin. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself.
After the events of the day, he and Rami had been interviewed by the emperor’s counselors—a trio of stern-faced elders—to the point of exhaustion and irritation. The three had drawn out every detail about the attack from the two young men without offering any information in return. Likewise, each soldier, archer, and guardsman was equally interrogated, but with much less civility. Several were rewarded with silver wreaths for their bravery; others were scolded and led off at swordpoint. No doubt the head of the guard would have been executed for allowing the royal party to be ambushed, but the man had died in the explosion, which was probably a godsend. His death out in the city had surely been less painful than what he would’ve found down in the emperor’s dungeons.
Notably absent from the proceedings had been Aalia herself. Once their war wagon had reached the palace citadel, she had been rushed away, along with her surviving Chaaen. Even in the bath now, Kanthe could not shake the fury in her face, directed at him, as if he were to blame for everything.
The slam of a door echoed across the tiled bath chamber. Kanthe sat straighter with a groan. Pratik entered, accompanied by Frell hy Mhlaghifor, the alchymist from Kanthe’s former school. Both men’s eyes fell upon him. From their expressions, the day’s inquiries were not yet finished.
Frell stopped at the edge of the wide bath, hands on his hips. He towered over Kanthe. He wore his usual alchymical garb of a belted black robe. The only addition was a silver circlet crowning his dark ruddy hair, which had been braided into a tail that reached his shoulders. From the shining circlet hung a thin veil—gauzier than the typical byor-ga of the baseborn castes. It marked Frell as one of the Unfettered, a foreigner to these lands. The veil was presently drawn aside, revealing a stern scowl, his typical expression when looking down upon Kanthe, his former student.
“Seems trouble is drawn to you as surely as flies to shite,” Frell commented.
Kanthe grunted tiredly. “But in this comparison, am I the fly or the shite?”
“Neither, in fact,” Pratik interceded. “I suspect the morning’s ambush had nothing to do with you, Prince Kanthe. They were clearly after the princess.”
“It was a bold strike,” Frell admitted. “As the only daughter of the emperor, she would be a prize above all.”
“That is, if the attackers succeeded,” Pratik added. “It cost them eighteen men in the failed attempt to grab her.”
“But who were they ?” Kanthe asked.
Pratik frowned. “From the attacker’s white-masked eyes, they are no doubt members of the Shayn’ra, meaning the Fist of God, a faction of heretical fighters that have plagued the Southern Klashe for over a century—though clearly, they’ve grown bolder of late.”
Kanthe pictured the leader standing in the street, undaunted by the failure of his ambush. “But what do they want?”
“To sow chaos and discord. With the ultimate goal of ending the rule of Klashean god-emperors and returning the land’s riches to its people.”
Frell snorted. “Or more likely to simply usurp Haeshan and take his place. History is rife with such fighters who espouse freedom, but in the end, prove to be as despotic as those they take down.”
“Mayhap.” Pratik shrugged. “The Haeshan line did indeed destroy the Kastian clan five centuries ago, who wiped out every heir of the Rylloran tribe prior to their rule. Still, we should not underestimate the Shayn’ra, especially now.”
“Why’s that?” Kanthe asked.
“I suspect the attempt to grab Aalia was stoked by your father’s attack to the north. They likely sought to take advantage of the bombing to make their move. They must’ve hurriedly staged that overturned wagon in the streets to push us into their trap.”
Kanthe winced, remembering the toppled cart, the recalcitrant ox, and the men struggling to right it. I hadn’t even considered they were part of the attack.
“And even in their haste,” Pratik added, “the ambushers came close to succeeding.”
“All too close,” Kanthe mumbled, noting the sting of his wounds.
With a heavy sigh, Pratik shifted over to the steps that led down into the bath. Here in the palace, the Chaaen had shed his byor-ga habiliment and wore only a knee-length tunic and sandals. Apparently, even such clothing was too much to bear. Pratik shed out of his tunic and kicked off his sandals.
As Pratik stepped down into the bath, Kanthe looked studiously elsewhere— not out of shyness at the man’s nakedness. Kanthe had grown accustomed to the lack of modesty found indoors here. Instead, he was discomfited by the Chaaen’s disfigurement, by the lack of manhood between his legs. Not to mention the crisscrossing of white scars across his dark skin and the iron collar forever fixed to his neck. All were testament to Pratik graduating from the Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom.
Kanthe had thought his own tutelage at Kepenhill had been stern and demanding. It paled in comparison. While his school had discouraged trysts, demanding purity, the House of Wisdom enforced it by clipping their firstyears. Worst of all, those who failed to move upward were executed. Those that survived were rewarded by being indentured to the imri class, to forever serve as chaaen-bound advisers. Most of the time, when Pratik was fully clothed, it was easy to forget the misery hidden beneath. Only now, that harsh history was undeniably bared.
It all served as a stark reminder that Kanthe was on foreign soil, about to marry into a culture that still appalled him in many ways.
Maybe the Shayn’ra have a point…
As the Chaaen settled into the steaming waters, he seemed not to notice Kanthe’s discomfort. Pratik’s features remained placid, as if he readily accepted such cruelties as a part of life. Instead, he remained focused on the matter at hand.
“That all said, the ambush on the street has me less concerned than the bombing to the north by Hálendiian forces,” Pratik reminded them. “If war breaks out, we’ll never reach the site of the Sleeper buried near Qazen.”
Frell crossed his arms. “Perhaps the assault upon the princess may serve us in the end. We may be able to use that attack to move up the wedding date.”
“How?” Kanthe asked.
Frell rubbed the shadowy stubble on his chin, clearly reappraising the situation. “Emperor Haeshan needs this wedding to take place. He’s already announced it. His will is considered that of a god among the people. He will lose face if the wedding doesn’t happen.”
Kanthe’s stomach churned queasily at the thought of rushing the marriage.
Frell continued, “We might be able to convince the emperor that if something were to happen to Aalia, the thwarting of her wedding would further denigrate His Illustriousness. Such a threat might sway him to move up the date of the nuptials.”
Pratik shook his head. “Such reasoning will fail. Emperor Haeshan has already reinforced her protection. He’ll keep her confined to the palace and under heavy guard. He’ll not risk the chance of a second attempt by the Shayn’ra. ”
Frell frowned. “But—”
Pratik cut him off. “The winter solstice is too important. On that day, the full moon will shine high in the sky with the sun at its lowest point. It is a rare event, considered portentous among our people. Emperor Haeshan will want his only daughter married under such an auspicious moon. It will take far more than a failed kidnapping to move him off that date.”
“Then what will?” Kanthe asked, doing his best to hide his dread.
“I will need to ponder it further,” Pratik admitted. “But it might aid our cause if you could convince Rami to support this change of plan. Perhaps you should bed the prince, after all. It might help us. He is considered quite skilled, it is said.”
Kanthe’s face heated. “I… I’ve already agreed to marriage. Isn’t that enough?”
Pratik ignored him and turned to Frell. “If we do succeed in changing the date of the wedding, we must consider our other mission here in Kysalimri.”
Frell grimaced. “To search for what knowledge lies hidden in the librarie of the Abyssal Codex.”
Pratik nodded. “If the wedding date is moved up, we’ll have less time to accomplish that task.” He waved toward the door. “To that end, how did your audience with the Dresh’ri go this morning?”
Frell shrugged. “I met with Zeng ri Perrin, their head inquisitor, along with two elders. Over the breadth of the morning, Zeng pressed me about my past, my training, my lines of study, settling on the most important question: what knowledge I sought among their ancient tomes. I thought it best not to prevaricate, especially as I wouldn’t be able to hide my line of inquiry once I gained entry. So, I told them the truth—that I sought apocalyptic prophecies from the time of the Forsaken Ages.”
Pratik nodded. “It was wise not to lie. The Dresh’ri name means Forbidden Eye. It is said the eldest among them can read the truth in one’s words.”
“How did they respond?” Kanthe asked.
Frell touched the crook of his left arm. “Still unknown. After the questioning, they leeched blood from me, then left, saying they would inform me of their judgement later.”
“I imagine the bloodletting will be used for an oracular reckoning,” Pratik explained. “To further judge you. Did they offer no other hint of their assessment?”
Frell paced the edge of the pool. “At the conclusion of the questioning, Zeng consulted with the other two Dresh’ri, who hadn’t spoken all morning long. I overheard one phrase, only because it was repeated twice, once by each of the elders before they left.”
“What phrase?” Pratik asked.
“If I made them out correctly, it was Vyk dyre Rha. ”
Kanthe scowled. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Frell admitted. “But one elder spoke it like a curse. The other whispered it reverently.”
Pratik had shifted straighter in the water. His eyes had gone huge, showing too much white. “Vyk dyre Rha,” he whispered.
Frell focused on the Chaaen. “You know those words?”
Before the Chaaen could answer, a low rumble rose all around them. The waters of the bath trembled and shook. The lanterns overhead swayed. They all held their breath until the disturbance settled.
“Another quake,” Frell whispered dourly. “It’s the third since we arrived on these shores.”
Kanthe knew what worried the man, what the alchymist believed this portended. Frell had shared his worries with them: that the gradual approach of the moon to the Urth was the source of these disturbances, a sign that moonfall was growing ever nearer.
Kanthe tried to discount it. “I asked Rami about it. He said the Southern Klashe suffers such shakes with fair regularity.”
“Not with this frequency,” Frell countered. “I reviewed stratigraphy archives at the Bad’i Chaa. Going back centuries. The quakes have been growing stronger and more often. Even the recorded tides seem to be rising higher, especially over the last two decades.”
Kanthe shook his head. Whether Frell was being paranoid or not, there was nothing to be done about it. He returned to their prior discussion, facing Pratik. “Back to this Vyk dyre Rha that Frell mentioned… what do you know about it?”
Pratik remained quiet. He had to swallow twice before answering. “It’s a name. In ancient Klashean. It translates as the Shadow Queen. ”
Kanthe and Frell let the Chaaen collect himself, sensing he needed a moment.
“I… I only heard it spoken once before,” Pratik said, his gaze far off. “By a scholar at the Bad’i Chaa. He was my mentor, an alchymical historian who studied the Forsaken Ages. One day, he drew me to his private scholarium. He claimed he had come across a single mention of a god-daemon in one of his alchymical texts—the Vyk dyre Rha —but the creature was not part of the Klashean pantheon of gods.”
Kanthe pictured sailing through the Stone Gods out in the Bay of the Blessed, each atoll carved into the likeness of those celestial beings.
“My teacher believed he had made an important discovery and consulted with the Dresh’ri. He went down into the Abyssal Codex to continue his research—and was never seen again. Later, his name was stricken from the House of Wisdom, as if he had never set foot there.”
Frell frowned. “Strange. What did your mentor’s text say about this Shadow Queen?”
“Little beyond terror. It is prophesied the daemon would gain flesh and form and bring about the fiery end of the Urth. But I’m convinced the Dresh’ri know more, that they lured my teacher down into their librarie to silence him forever. He must have kept quiet about sharing this knowledge with me. Or else I would’ve surely suffered the same fate. Since then, I’ve listened discreetly but learned nothing more. Just rumors that the Dresh’ri worship a god—one that bears no sigil or symbol. The name is never spoken, so I can’t be sure, but I’ve long suspected—”
“That it’s this Vyk dyre Rha, ” Kanthe said.
Pratik nodded and stood. Despite the heat of the bath, his skin prickled with cold bumps of terror. He faced Frell. “You must not go down to that librarie, even if you are invited. Refuse. Say you’ve decided to pursue another angle of study.”
Frell remained silent, but Kanthe knew his mentor. If anything, this story stoked the alchymist’s curiosity. The Abyssal Codex would lure him—as surely as a fly to shite, to use the alchymist’s earlier words.
But considering Pratik’s warning, Kanthe knew a more apt analogy. No matter the danger, his teacher would be drawn there…
Like a moth to a searing flame.