04c Dreams of Fire and Gods: Gods (11 page)

“I believe it means ‘elder’ in the Taaweh language,” she replied. “He’s chosen it as a title for himself, since
vönan
is no longer available to him.”

Sael nodded. He’d been meaning to think of a title for his old mentor, disliking the demotion that had been forced upon Geilin by Vosik and the other
vönan
, but he hadn’t had much time to think about it. This would do.

“Sael,” Tanum said more gently, “you knew your brother. Do you really think he would have been happy to see me wandering about the castle in mourning blacks, sighing and looking wistful, while there is so much to be done?”

Seffni had told Sael more than once that he’d fallen in love with Tanum because she was as strong as he was, if not stronger. He’d always admired her determination.

“Perhaps not,” he replied. Then he sighed and picked up his tea again. “Do what you feel you must. I will support you.”

L
EAVING
his family had been incredibly hard. The girls had sobbed inconsolably. Emik and his father had seen Koreh off with stoic handclasps, Emik managing to hold back his tears for the space of a few heartbeats before he turned suddenly and ran off behind the cottage. But the hardest part for Koreh had been looking into his mother’s eyes and seeing the pain there at losing her oldest son for the second time. But she gave him an understanding smile and pulled him close to whisper into his ear, “You’ll find him. But promise you’ll come back to us.”

“I promise.”

Koreh didn’t know where he was going. As long as Sael still lived in Dasak, Koreh could never find him in Bashyeh. Yet something compelled him to continue the journey Chya had started him off on almost half a century ago. Koreh had felt then that Chya had been trying to teach him something—something about life and death and the ways of the Taaweh. When the boy had abandoned him at the cottage, Koreh thought perhaps he’d arrived at his destination, that Chya had merely been escorting him to his family and the place where Koreh would spend eternity.

But why had he seen Sael in the river? And why had he seen Sek on the hill? Koreh had pondered those events for several months before making his final decision. He’d returned to the river almost daily during those months, but Sael’s face had never reappeared, and Sek had never returned. Koreh refused to believe he’d imagined them. He’d grown too familiar with the ways of Taaweh magic to dismiss his feeling that the visions had been a message.

And the message had been telling him it was time to continue seeking… whatever Chya had been directing him toward.

He’d considered going back the way they’d come to see if he could return to Dasak through the
tyeh-areh
. But even if that was possible, what would he return as? A specter? Would he wander invisible through the world, powerless to do anything but watch as events unfolded?

Chya had been leading him westward and some instinct continued to pull Koreh in that direction. He brought a walking stick and a small pack for food and a change of clothes and nothing else. As before, he would sleep on the side of the road and stop at inns when they were available.

He traveled on foot for a day and a half before coming to a small village. Like the village where he and Chya had met Snut and Mak all those years ago, this one boasted a single tavern that rented a couple of rooms in the back with beds in them. Koreh had no money, but when the owner told him “Tha’ll be two coppers for th’ night,” he simply extended his hand and found two copper coins resting on his palm.

The man grunted and swept the coins up in his hand. “’Course, the’s a meal, comes in the price. Best
kikid
stew ye ever et.”

“Thank you,” Koreh said. He hadn’t yet fallen back into the habit of not eating, so his stomach was growling. A thought occurred to him. “Have you seen a young boy come this way? About ten years old with black hair.”

“Lot’s o’ boys like that ’round ’ere.”

“He would probably have been traveling alone.”

The man shook his head. Of course, Koreh reflected, if Chya had come through the village, it would have been almost fifty years ago. And there was no reason to believe the Taaweh had remained in Bashyeh after leaving Koreh. But no matter. Koreh now felt he had a goal—he would attempt to follow Chya’s cold trail, if there was one. Perhaps the boy had left him some clues as to his destination. It was a long shot, but it was better than wandering aimlessly.

So he traveled from village to village over the span of a year, asking about Chya wherever he stopped. He discovered little about the boy’s whereabouts, but he did discover something else that puzzled him. One night in a pasture, where he’d joined a group of farmers and their families gathering around a bonfire to dance and drink in the Ascension of Kiishya—a holiday unique to Bashyeh—Koreh asked about Chya. He received the usual shrugs and shaking of heads. He then said, “I suppose he’s back in Dasak now.”

This received a number of blank looks and one young woman asked, “Dasak? Is that a village?”

“No,” Koreh replied, startled. “Dasak. The kingdom.” When this was met with more blank stares, he added, “The land of the living?”

“The living what?”

“The living
people
. Where we all came from.”

None of those near him seemed to know what he was talking about. Koreh tried again. “Where we all lived before we
died
.”

“What is… ‘died’?” the young woman asked.

“When something stops living,” Koreh replied, growing frustrated. But it was clear she didn’t know what he meant. “Where did you live before you came here?” he asked her.

“I’ve always lived here.”

That was when Koreh realized not everybody remembered the world of the living. In fact, the farther west he traveled, the more common this became. He soon gave up asking people about it. Was this then the fate of everyone who came here—to eventually forget having once been alive? Perhaps it was inevitable. After hundreds or thousands of years in Bashyeh, even a full human lifetime in Dasak would seem fleeting.

The thought depressed Koreh. Worse still was the possibility that he might forget Sael as the decades turned into centuries. The only way to prevent it might be to find Sael as quickly as possible, so they could begin to build a new life together here. But how could Koreh know when Sael arrived in Bashyeh? He didn’t even know how many years had passed in Dasak since his arrival here. Sael might still be a young man. And Koreh certainly couldn’t wish for his death!

He continued his lonely trek through the countryside, struggling not to give in to despair.
At first he counted leagues and days, then he counted seasons and years, and finally decades.

One morning he awoke in his camp along a little-traveled dirt road to find that a mist had descended, blanketing the landscape in a soft gray haze. Koreh made himself some tea—a habit he’d recently acquired, because it reminded him of Master Geilin—and then packed up his makeshift camp.

As he walked along the road, it was so quiet he could hear his footsteps padding softly on the dried earth and grass. Over time, he became aware of another faint sound—something like footsteps, yet different. He stopped and listened. The sound grew louder, and he recognized it as the sound of hooves upon damp earth. There was a horse approaching along the road ahead, walking unhurriedly.

Koreh waited, motionless, gripping his walking stick tightly, though he had yet to encounter anything dangerous in Bashyeh. The mist was heavier up ahead, so he had to strain to see, but gradually a black horse appeared. It was saddled, but there was no rider and nobody walked alongside the animal.

Koreh watched, dumbfounded, as the horse drew nearer. When the stallion came to a halt directly in front of him, he lifted a hand and it nuzzled his outspread palm.

“Sek,” Koreh whispered.

D
ONEGH
watched the
vek
from the shadows as he dismissed his valet, telling the old man, “Thank you, Gim, but I won’t be changing into my evening clothes—not just yet. I’ll call you, when I need you.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Gim said. The valet bowed and took his leave.

Worlen went to the glass-paned doors that opened onto the balcony and looked out upon the city, apparently lost in thought. But when Donegh stepped silently from the shadows behind him, Worlen spoke. “Have you come to kill me?”

Donegh froze in place as the
vek
turned—unhurriedly, almost casually, though he drew his sword in the same motion. “No, Your Grace. Thuna sent me, on behalf of the Taaweh.”

“Is that so?” Worlen slowly stepped forward, menacing him with the razor-sharp tip of his blade. “Forgive my skepticism, assassin, but I came too close to losing my son to you. What proof can you offer of your alliance with the Taaweh?”

“I am wearing one of their robes, Your Grace.”

“Are they impossible to steal?”

At that, Donegh allowed himself to fall through the floor and then popped up a footstep closer to the
vek
. The point of Worlen’s sword now hovered a mere foot away from his chest.

“That is more difficult to fake,” Worlen conceded. “But why, of all people, should the Taaweh send the boy who tried to assassinate my son?”

Donegh rankled at being called a “boy,” but he knew enough about Worlen to know there was little point in correcting him. “Your Grace, I was under contract at the time. Since I am no longer
samöt
, that contract is null and void.”

“So you’re a reformed assassin now?” Worlen said icily, circling slowly around Donegh, while still keeping the sword between them. “How heartwarming.”

“I am not reformed. I am simply no longer
samöt
. Now I am allied with the Taaweh and cannot hear the
ömem
.”

“A
hobbled
assassin, then.”

Donegh felt his hackles rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. “The Taaweh have given me an alternative to the
ömem
, Your Grace. In order to serve you.”

“To serve me?”

“Yes, Your Grace. In your plan to assassinate the emperor.”

“Be silent, you fool!” Worlen snarled, sliding forward until the point of his blade hovered less than an inch from Donegh’s breast. “Anyone might be listening at the door!”

Donegh remained calm. He could drop out of sight and out of the reach of Worlen’s sword, but he knew the
vek
wouldn’t attempt to run him through—not without thoroughly assessing the situation first. He rarely moved without careful consideration. “Marik can see through the shadows in every room around us, Your Grace, and I can see through her eyes. There is nobody near enough to overhear.”

“So you say.”

But the
vek
seemed to accept that they were safe nonetheless, because he sheathed his sword and walked back to the window. Donegh sensed it was now safe to follow, and he did so.

“Contract or not,” Worlen said quietly, looking out over the city rather than at Donegh directly, “I should never forgive you for threatening the life of my son—my
only
son, thanks to one of your companions. But sour milk becomes butter in a famine, so they say.” He paused, seeming lost in thought for a moment. “The emperor has been without an heir since the death of his son, Tull
dönz
Nesharr. But my spies in the royal palace have informed me that this may not be the case for much longer.”

Donegh suspected he knew more about the death of the fifteen-year-old heir than the
vek
did. Few were aware that the boy’s fall from the castle battlements had been contracted by one of the emperor’s own concubines, in the hopes that she would bear him a son of her own. Under normal circumstances, the assassination of a royal would have been far too expensive for anyone but the wealthiest of nobles to afford, but the
ömem
had accepted a ridiculously low commission for the job—one of the hidden costs of the emperor’s assault against Marik, and one she herself might not have been aware of.

Now, perhaps, the treachery had come to fruition. “Is one of his concubines with child?”

“Yes,” Worlen answered. “Only a few months along. His
ömem
believe it will be a boy. The woman has been isolated, in the meantime.”

By law, the son of a concubine could not inherit the throne unless the empress consort—his wife by law—was declared incapable of bearing children and the emperor recognized the child as his heir. The first was a legal matter and largely involved paying a sufficient sum to the royal
caedan
. The latter could only be done after the child was born. And Donegh had already heard rumors, strictly kept within the Brotherhood and the Sisterhood, that the empress consort was seeking a contract against the concubine in question.

“Why is this a concern?” Donegh asked.

“Because as long as the emperor is without an heir, the reigning
vek
is one of the possible legal successors to the throne.”

Not
the
successor, Donegh knew, but a possible one. “I would think that declaring war against the emperor and killing him would render that null and void.”

“My dear assassin,” Worlen replied with a cold chuckle, “I intend to take the throne, regardless. But to
keep
it, I must appear to be legitimate. If an heir is recognized by the high chancellor and the royal court before I am coronated, then I shall be forced to either kill the boy or keep an eye on him for the rest of his life. If my enemies believe the boy has a legitimate claim to the throne, they will rally around him and cause me endless problems.”

“Then have the mother assassinated.”

Worlen snorted. “I will not have my legacy tied to the murder of a mother and her unborn child. No, the best course of action is to prevent him from ever being named heir to begin with.” He turned to face Donegh and added, “And now I believe it is time for us to go.”

Donegh bowed and extended a hand, which the
vek
took in one of his own. Then silently they dropped through the floor.