Kindred and Wings (31 page)

A small figure was now distinguishable atop the dragon. She had a blade upraised, and for some unknown reason Equo was more terrified of her than the dragon she rode. Baraca’s eyes blazed, and the light which had terrified the other Named seemed to deflect from the dragon. She threw back her craggy head, and when her mouth opened flame poured from it, enveloping the scion in a circle of red light that overwhelmed him.

The light of the Void died with him. The trio of dragonets finally reached the devastation, but it was too late for the scion. Varlesh began the song, as a thrum; a song of transformation that would shatter bone and bring it into line, but the dragon sprung up from the earth, buffeting the smaller shapes the three of them wore.

The song was disrupted as Varlesh and Equo were brought crashing to the ground.

As the Named dragon leapt into the air, Equo saw the tiny, limp form of Nyree hanging from one of its claws. It was impossible to tell if she was dead or alive. The dragon fear claimed those below, like a tide of misery. Clouds swirled around the creature and lightning danced behind her.

Then she laughed, the kind of sound that made ears bleed. Many of Baraca’s troops that had managed to stay on their feet until then, howled and fell to their knees when she began to speak. “You wonder, insects, why there are no more scions in Conhaero. Now you see the power of the Phage, and how we take what we want. We are the true power in this world.”

With that, the dragon disappeared back into the clouds with a few flaps of her wide wings, faster and more powerful than any form the Ahouri could manage in this moment.

Equo let go of the shape as he watched Nyree disappear with the dragon. Such an ugly creature for such a magnificent name. Despair washed over him.

“She’s dead . . .” he whispered to himself, scarcely able to feel his own body anymore. His mind kept repeating again and again, the moments they had shared, his dreams . . .

“Not dead,” Si said, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “She is the seer. Remember what the Kindred told us. They have taken her because they need her.”

“And what, by the Crone, will they do with her?” Varlesh wiped a line of blood from his mouth. “Did you see the dire little child riding his back?” He shook his head. “I did not like the look of her!”

“The Belly of the World,” Equo muttered, trying to clear his head of distracting thoughts. If they lost their way now, Nyree would die as Baraca had. “Where is that exactly?”

“Over the water,” Si replied. “The place where chaos is born. Not a good place. Even the Vaerli always avoided it.”

“And yet,” Equo said firmly, “that is where we will be going. The Ahouri will be going even if the Vaerli do not come.”

Varlesh looked around them, at the broken remains of One-eyed Baraca’s army; the dead and dying with their hollow eyes and the wounds that were deeper than mere flesh. Even the most optimistic of their trio could see what the others saw.

“If the end is truly coming,” he said under his breath. “The center of the world is a good a place as any to meet it.”

Kelanim had not forgotten that moment. Seeing one of her rivals riding the Caisah that night of the Swoop’s invasion had made the point that the nagi had wanted made. Very well, in fact.

Yet she had not made a fuss. Instead, the mistress had simply turned and slipped out the door with neither the Caisah nor his lover noticing that she had come. She had shed no tears as she shuffled back to the chapel, took up the cup, and went back to her room in the harem, clutching the nagi’s gift to her. Even when she’d shut the door, she had let none of the venom fall.

Instead, she determined that this shame would be the last. The nagi had given her more than a goblet, he had given her a way out of this humiliation.

For the next few days, Kelanim turned all of her considerable talents of attraction and wile toward the Caisah. It was a bold move, since in the past her full-on attempts to get his attention had sprung back in her face.

As she sat at his side dealing with Court matters, she noticed an imperceptible change—the faintest edge of fatigue seemed to hang around his shoulders. It was not anything that anyone but she would have noticed.

The nagi and the centaur had been right: she had her chance. She used those days to work at the edge of that vulnerability. She wore all the colors the Caisah loved on her; dark green, or vibrant purples. She laughed at all the appropriate times, smiled at him askance, and flirted as only she could. Yet, she did not flaunt herself overly.

The younger members of the harem always made that mistake. The ones that lasted were the ones who quickly realized that he liked to be the pursuer, not the prey. They dressed appropriately, if they were sensible—attractive, but not showing quite everything.

Kelanim bent all that knowledge she had gained in her years in the harem toward catching his eye. It would not be the first time that his interest in her had waned. His affections were like the tide, and she would draw him back in again.

Nearly a week after her embarrassment, Kelanim succeeded. The Caisah called for her to dance for him late that evening, and immediately she felt the thrill of victory. He spent that night in her chamber, watching her, talking with her, laying her in the bed, and most importantly of all, drinking with her.

When the Caisah first lay his lips on the cup of the nagi, Kelanim had been sure that he would take one taste, spot the deception, and fling it—and most likely her, too—out the window to smash on the stones many floors below. Instead, he had laughed, poured the wine on her body and licked it off.

It had taken every ounce of her self control to laugh along with him, and pretend that it was all pleasure and hedonism for her.

Whatever it was, that first drink helped her cause. The next day, the Caisah had eyes for no one but Kelanim. He came to her chamber again, drank deeply from the cup, and did not even need her to wind her charms around him with dance. Instead he took her on the rug by the fire.

None of this made the mistress feel better in any way. Three times, that was what the nagi had said, and so it would have to be three times.

The Caisah was sitting in his throne. General Despian of the Rutilian Guard was on bended knee before him, his scarlet jacket dulled in the shadows of the room. The news he had just delivered was the kind that should have driven the Caisah into a frothing rage, and Despian knew it. He was a grizzled old man, who had worn out his life in service to Conhaero and its ruler. Yet he was visibly trembling as he knelt.

Kelanim, lazily waving her peacock fan in front of her face and watching the scene, would have predicted this would end in a bloody fashion on any other day. She had seen a few such occasions before, and been forced to move fast to keep the hem of her dress from ruin.

However, as her eyes drifted furtively toward the Caisah, she suspected that today would not be that sort of day.

“You Majesty,” the general spoke, after kneeling on a bent knee for many minutes. His gout must have been acting up for him to dare to question when he knew his life depended on it. “Majesty, did you hear that the rebel Baraca has taken Peuluis? The garrison has been overrun, and the populace is tearing down the wall.”

“Yes,” the Caisah replied, waving his hand. “That town has always been troublesome.”

Despian cleared his throat. “And the Swoop was part of the group that helped take the town. Without their assistance, it might never have fallen.”

Kelanim liked the man’s forward behavior. He had never cared for the Swoop, and must have in private taken great delight in that piece of news. If he thought he was going to lose his head anyway, he might as well press the point.

The Caisah was not even looking in his direction. Instead his gaze turned to Kelanim, and a flash of a smile darted over his lips.

“Majesty?” the general ventured again. “What would you have us do?”

Kelanim felt her stomach clench. If the Caisah fell apart right in front of his people, it could be the end of his Empire. The people believed in his immortality and his almost omniscient view.

A small voice whispered in the back of her head: wasn’t this what she wanted? For him to be mortal, and hers?

The Caisah was smiling at her, his eyes seeming to pierce right through her. It was as if he were looking at her for the very first time. Kelanim felt her own eyes prickle with tears, and she clutched onto her fan with tight white fingers.

“It is time,” the tyrant spoke, so softly that all of the Court had to lean forward to catch his words, “for my part to come to an end.”

He held out his hand to Kelanim, and she rose quickly to stand beside him and take it. She felt as though her heart would burst with pride.

The Caisah inclined his head, as though he were telling a tale to a group of children—which, from his way of thinking, they were. “I was not born in this world, but in another place just as cruel, though it was not the heart of chaos.”

Kelanim could feel the Court hanging on every word that came out of her love’s mouth. All of them, from solider to scholar, and from courtesan to milk maid, had always wondered and pondered on the beginning of the Caisah. Never in all the time before this moment, had he spoken of it—not even to give the slightest hint.

He walked down off the dais and she went with him, beaming with pride. Finally, they stood before the tall staff that hung on the wall. She could not remember a time it had not been there. Only now, looking up at the golden eagle with spread wings that stood atop it, did the mistress wonder what part it played in the Caisah’s story.

His eyes were fixed on it now, like a drowning man might look at a piece of flotsam. “This was the mark of my honor. It was everything I had dreamed of. This was carried before the infantry that I commanded, and where we went the heathens trembled in fear. Until that day . . . the day that the mists descended, and we went into the White Void.”

Kelanim gasped as his hand tightened on hers, but he took no heed of her, lost in the memory. The mistress glanced around at the Court in horror, because she knew it was not what they wanted to hear. The councilors at the back were whispering amongst themselves, and the general, who had finally levered himself up off his knee, had retreated back toward his aides. The Caisah could not afford to lose the trust of both the politicians and the army.

“Darling,” Kelanim whispered under her breath, “you are not well. Let’s go back to my chamber and we can . . .”

The Caisah completely ignored her, though he kept his hand tight on hers, while the other stroked the smooth wood of the staff. His voice now was more for himself than for anyone else. “They promised so much—honor, glory and power. They said I would lead the world in victory, and bring an end to cowardice. All I had to do was promise to be theirs. Be the scion that they needed.”

Scion. The word flashed around the room like lightning. Now there were more than whispers, there were actually people stepping back from the Caisah. One or two were even taking the chance and slipping away. Their leader did not even appear to notice, his eyes ever fixed on the golden eagle as if it could tell him something.

Rebellion in the east, and now the Caisah was losing his grip on power. He’d ranted and railed before—Kelanim had seen plenty of that. However, this time was different. This time he seemed not to care about power at all.

Kelanim was only his mistress; she knew full well that the Court had less than zero respect for her. They would not listen to her if she spoke. Actually, if she did, her love would only look weaker. So she stood there, for the first time in her life utterly at a loss at what to do.

The Swoop did her a favor then. Windows shattered high above, raining shards of glass down on the glittering Court. Now their whispers turned to screams of horror. For a moment Kelanim smiled as the great birds of prey—a hundred at least—poured through the broken windows. Feathers and shrieks filled the air. All of the hangers-on, the beautiful advancement-seekers and the leeches, started running for their lives.

As the women of the Swoop reached the ground and slipped from bird to armored soldier form, some of the Rutilian Guards finally remembered their jobs. As they stepped between the Swoop and the Caisah, Kelanim noticed that General Despian was not one of them. In fact, she noted how he slipped back from action altogether and out the door.

The Caisah had not moved. Not even the appearance of flying women could pull his gaze away from the strange memento on the wall. The sound of sword on sword brought home to Kelanim that she had to do something.

This was her doing. It was the nagi and the centaur. She had made him weak to make him hers—and now he might well die for it. The mistress threw down her fan and grabbed his hand.

“Come with me,” she said with a gasp.

Her looked at her, and for an instant she thought she was looking into the Void itself. He had nothing of any strength behind those eyes. Only sadness and loss looked back at her, so that she felt stripped and tiny in his gaze.

The unfortunate truth was, she still loved him, and she knew that she could mend that hurt. “Please come with me,” she repeated, though so softly maybe he couldn’t hear it over the tumult in the throne room.