04c Dreams of Fire and Gods: Gods (24 page)

“Then where is your queen?”

“Here,” said a voice behind him.

Sael spun around to see the
tadu
Koreh had chased standing behind him—and as current fashion appeared to dictate, he was completely naked. Sael had thought him destroyed in the first fireball that struck Koreh. Now the young man sneered at him and suddenly shoved Sael hard in the chest. Taken off guard, Sael tumbled backward and struck something hard—King Caednu’s chest.

T
HE
fact that Caednu was off-balance, pressed against the barrier with his arms splayed out at his sides, prevented him from immediately stepping back and grabbing Sael. When Sael fell to the king’s feet, Koreh snagged his tunic and yanked hard. He fell over himself, but at least Sael came with him. They sprawled onto the grass on the inside of the barrier, while Caednu snarled in frustration.

The
tadu
laughed unpleasantly. “One of you—Sael—is still mortal.” He circled around them slowly. “But how is it, dear Koreh, that you are not?”

Koreh stood and helped Sael to his feet, while he tried to sort out what was happening. Was the
tadu
claiming to be Imen? How could that be possible? A disguise? But how could a mere disguise allow Imen to wander at will on this side of the barrier? Perhaps she was controlling the
tadu
somehow.

There seemed little point in being coy about his association with the Taaweh at this point, so Koreh straightened up and faced Imen, telling her, “I am Taaweh now.”

“How?” Imen demanded.

“I died,” Koreh said, “and I found my way back.”

“Back from where?”

“Bashyeh—the land of the dead.”

“There is no such place,” Imen said, coming to a stop in front of him. “Dead is dead. There is no ‘place’ for the dead but in a crypt.”

Sael looked at her curiously. “What of the Great Hall, then?”

“The Great Hall?” Imen’s smug expression faltered. “There is no Great Hall—not for humans, alive or dead.”

“Then it was all a lie.”

“A lie you told yourselves,” Imen retorted. “The lie did not come from us. The Stronni are immortal. We have no concept of death, and we do not understand what it is that allows humans to die. We never told you we could cure this… affliction. It was your
caedan
who lied to you.”

“We have no need of your ‘Great Hall,’” Koreh said. “When we die, we go through the
tyeh-areh
—the Great Mist—and enter Bashyeh. I’ve seen it. I’ve been there and I returned. And now I know… you cannot separate us from the Taaweh, because we
are
the Taaweh. If you kill every last living human in the kingdom, the Taaweh will only increase in number.”

Imen regarded him in cool silence for a long time. In the distance, Koreh could hear the sounds of the emperor’s men calling out their surrender as they staggered through the burned wasteland toward the barrier, and soldiers in the camp barking orders at one another. But here, those sounds were muffled by wind and the crackling of flames from Caednu’s sword.

At last, King Caednu broke the silence. “So be it. I will see this entire kingdom reduced to ash. Let the Taaweh rule over cinders.”

T
HE
captain of the royal guard was chosen to referee the duel, and he began to clear everyone out of the center of the room. Donegh was pressed back along with the others, but he managed to keep a position at the front. What he could do to aid Worlen from here, he didn’t know, but he didn’t trust the emperor to fight fair. At the very least, he intended to keep an eye on the man.

A problem arose before the duel could even begin—the emperor had no weapon.

“I don’t suppose you would allow me to go to my quarters and fetch my blade?” he asked Worlen in a mocking tone of voice.

“I’m afraid not,” Worlen responded. “But we are in a room full of weapons, Your Majesty. Surely one would be suitable? You may have my sword, if you like. I can make do with one from the royal guards.”

“Your Majesty,” the captain said, “I would be honored to give you my personal sword.”

Savön nodded at him. “I thank you, Captain Teleh, but I prefer to borrow one from my personal guard. I selected their blades myself, and they are of a style I feel comfortable with.”

At that, one of his bodyguards strode forward, drew his sword, and knelt before his liege lord. He presented the sword with both hands. “Your Majesty.”

Savön took the sword and held it aloft, checking its balance. “Ah yes. An excellent blade. I trust you have no objections, Worlen?”

“None, Your Majesty.”

“Then let us get this foolishness over with.”

Worlen ignored the jibe and fell into position, sword at the ready. “King’s rules,” he said, and then added with a wry smile, “Of course.”

“And to the death,” Savön said as he took up his position and crossed his sword with Worlen’s. “There seems little point in sparing the loser.”

“Agreed.”

Captain Teleh stood off to one side, arm raised. “Your Majesty, Your Grace… begin!” He brought his arm down sharply.

Savön lunged, but Worlen stepped back, parrying easily. The opening move had been a bit clumsy, and for a moment Donegh wondered if the battle would be over in a heartbeat. But the emperor recovered from his mistake and successfully parried the
vek
’s counterattack. As the duel continued, it became apparent the two were closely matched.

The emperor is out of shape
, Donegh thought.

Marik answered him with
He was the reigning champion for over a decade. Do not dismiss him so quickly.

Are you hoping he’ll win?

I hope he dies in agony
. She was silent for a long moment. Then she said,
If the
vek
dies, I want you to promise me something, Donegh.

What?

I want you to slit Savön’s throat.

Donegh knew his life would be forfeit if Worlen lost the duel. He might be able to escape, given the skills he’d learned from the Taaweh, but he would be an outlaw for the rest of his life. If anyone might take him in, it would be Marik.
I promise
, he said.

The two combatants danced around each other in the center of the room, the clanging and scraping of their swords, the sharp intake and exhalation of their breath, and the soft slap of leather boots on marble the only sounds to be heard. As Marik had predicted, Savön was no drunken braggart to fall to a few skilled cuts of the
vek
’s sword. He was carrying too much weight, but his skill compensated for it.

Nevertheless, it was Worlen who scored the first hit. The emperor lunged for Worlen’s chest, but he stepped back and parried. Deftly circling Savön’s blade, Worlen brought his own back into play and leapt forward to dig the point into Savön’s shoulder.

“Point!” Captain Teleh called out.

Clamping a hand over the wound, Savön snarled at him through gritted teeth, “This isn’t for points, you fool!”

Teleh bowed quickly, his face crimson, before calling for the duel to continue.

Savön’s rhythm was off after that. It was clear the wound pained him, and since it was in his sword arm, his lunges and parries seemed sluggish. After one parry, Savön attempted to glide his blade along Worlen’s and strike at the throat, but it went off target and merely scratched the side of Worlen’s neck.

“My apologies,” Savön panted as the
vek
stepped back with his left hand coming up to assess the wound. “I meant that for your throat.”

Worlen’s eyes were smoldering with anger—not, Donegh suspected, because of the wound, but because it had been unsportsmanlike. If Donegh knew anything at all about the man, it was that Worlen would rather die than succumb to cheating. But the
vek
merely smiled and replied, “That’s quite all right, Your Majesty. No harm done.”

At that, Savön growled and lunged again, before Worlen had returned to a ready stance—something which would have cost him a point in a normal match, just as striking at his opponent’s throat would have done. Worlen merely sidestepped and parried.

Both men appeared to be tiring. Even Worlen was panting for breath as they continued to circle each other in the center of the room. After a particularly clumsy exchange, Savön dropped his sword.

“Please pick up your sword, Your Majesty,” Worlen snapped. His courtly manners were fraying around the edges, but he nonetheless stepped back rather than take advantage of the mishap.

“Ah, Worlen,” Savön said coolly. “Honorable to the last.”

He retrieved his sword, and the two men once again took up ready stances in the center of the room. Captain Teleh called out “Continue!” and stepped back.

Worlen lunged with startling swiftness. Savön attempted an upward parry, but by the time his blade connected, it was already too late—Worlen’s blade had pierced his doublet and shirt and penetrated his breast. It happened so suddenly no one in the room seemed aware of just how severe the blow had been. Not until Savön, his face looking startled and disbelieving, fell to his knees did Captain Teleh call “Hold!” and rush to his side.

Worlen yanked his sword out of Savön’s chest and sheathed it, while the emperor toppled over onto the marble floor.

“Elder Sister!” Teleh called to the old
ömem
still seated on the dais. “The emperor requires your aid.”

There was a long silence before Raeh replied calmly, “Emperor Savön has broken peace with the Sisterhood once too often. We will no longer aid him.”

“He’s dying!”

“It was a duel to the death, was it not?”

It was fairly clear to Donegh that there was little the
ömem
or anyone else could do for Savön at this point. The blade had pierced his heart, and he was lying in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be unconscious, if not already dead.

Worlen walked slowly around the circumference of the space they’d been dueling in until he came to where Donegh was standing. He gestured for the young man to come over to him and Donegh obeyed. When he drew close, Worlen leaned down and said under his breath, “I feel… unwell.”

This close, Donegh could see the
vek
was extremely pale, despite his exertions. His skin was damp with sweat, as might be expected, but his lips were beginning to turn bluish. His eyes seemed to be having trouble focusing. “Poison, Your Grace?”

“Perhaps this was why he insisted upon using the blade of one of his bodyguards.”

“Shall I get the
ömem
?”

“She may not be inclined to aid me any more than she did Savön,” Worlen replied with a wry smile.

“Let me try, Your Grace,” Donegh said. When the
vek
said nothing to stop him, Donegh left him briefly and hurried to the dais. He looked up at Raeh where she sat beside the throne and said, “Elder Sister, His Grace needs your assistance.”

“Tell His Grace that he can have the assistance of the
ömem
when he releases those he has held captive in Harleh and paid us restitution for the distress he has caused us.”

“It’s urgent, Sister!” Donegh protested.

But Raeh held a hand up to silence him. “Savön and Worlen have both abused the Sisterhood in their war. Their fate is no longer our concern.”

Behind him, Captain Teleh announced, “The emperor is dead.”

There was a long silence in the room, as these words sank in. For many of those present, Savön had been emperor for most of their lives. That he could die so suddenly was nearly inconceivable.

High Chancellor Djalleh stepped in front of the throne and cleared his throat. Then he raised his hands and proclaimed, “Emperor Savön
dönz
Nesharr is dead. Your Grace,” he added, looking at Worlen, “this pronouncement cannot be legally binding unless the doors are opened and the temple is notified.”

Worlen looked at him coolly for a moment before commanding, “Open the doors!”

G
ONIM
was horrified by King Caednu’s almost offhand condemnation of the entire human population of Dasak to death. But he was helpless to do or say anything in response so long as Imen controlled him.

Something else troubled him—he was beginning to feel… strange. Certainly he’d felt different since the goddess had healed him and claimed him as her own, but that had been good. He’d felt energized and strong. Now he was sensing a peculiar weakness in his limbs, as if exhaustion was catching up with him, and he felt flushed.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Imen turned him to watch the approach of two men—a soldier and an aging wizard. At least, Gonim assumed at first he was a mage of some sort. But as the man drew near, he was less certain. The old man’s robes were oddly colored in blue and silver, rather than the gold and white of the vönan, and he lacked the eye tattoo on his forehead that marked a
vönan
. His staff was likewise of a design Gonim had never seen before, with a large, ornate head of silver and inlaid jewels.

“Iinyo Geilin,” Sael said as the old man approached, “may I introduce you to the gods? His Majesty, King Caednu,” he added, with a nod to the god who was still seething on the other side of the barrier, “and his Queen, Imen.” This last with a nod to Gonim.

Geilin looked puzzled, apparently uncertain whether this was a joke. Perhaps it was. But he could hardly deny that King Caednu was something other than human, so he bowed low. “Your Majesties. I am humbled by your presence.”

The hapless soldier beside him looked terrified, but he mimicked the older man and bowed.

Caednu snorted contemptuously. “Geilin. I know you. You were the most powerful
vönan
in the kingdom.”

“You flatter me, sire.”

“I have no interesting in flattering a human,” the king retorted impatiently. “You’ve betrayed us! You no longer bear my mark.”

Geilin straightened up and looked King Caednu directly in the eye. “I cannot deny that, sire. Circumstances made it necessary to change my allegiances.”