Oathkeeper (56 page)

Here Yavi saw whole caverns of rock formations, not just stalagmites and stalactites but stone curtains, columns, flowstone, and walls of lace-thin helictites. Tsan knew all about them, leading Yavi and Dolvek through the central gardens where various mosses and fungi grew . . . some for food and others for display.

Carefully placed reflectors filled caverns with sunlight during the day and amplified torchlight at night except for sections of cave where bioluminescent plant life cast its own arboreal brilliance. Mineral-rich air brought a symphony of smells to Yavi, some familiar, others strange and mysterious. Dolvek said he couldn't smell anything but Zaur and roses, but he did not say it in a spiteful way, which she hoped Tsan appreciated.

He was making progress. Maybe it was the blood he'd swallowed back at the Grand Conjunction when he'd been poisoned by the Zaur and saved by a concoction whose main ingredient had been Kholster's blood. Conversation in Zaurtol went on all around them, so much so that Yavi wished she could speak or at least understand it. She wasn't sure if you could make all the right noises and vibrations without a tail, but Queen Kari had learned a little, so Yavi hoped she would teach her what she could when they got back to The Parliament of Ages.

“Warlord Xastix says he would be pleased to entertain you in the throne room,” Tsan purred.

She sure was padding along awfully cheerfully for someone who expected to be executed, but given what she'd heard the former general say about the cheapness of life from a Sri'Zauran point of view, maybe they looked forward to it. Yavi could see that, too, in a way. She wasn't in any hurry to die, but when she did, it wasn't like she wouldn't be happy to see Kholster again.

*

Kuort missing. Dryga dead. Asvrin having lost half of his Shades. The bad news rolled in via the echoing vibrations of Zaurtol all around General Tsan. She kept up a running commentary, walking her guests in meandering scenic trails . . . because no one could get the warlord out of his bath? Seriously?

“I should warn you,” Tsan prattled on, not knowing what else to say but trying to arrange for multiple eventualities, “that Warlord Xastix will want us all to shed blood as a sign we are sincere in our intent to reach an alliance before the negotiations begin.”

“How much blood?” Dolvek gasped, struggling to breathe.

“Not much,” Tsan said smoothly. “You can use your own blade, or a Skreel knife can be made available to you.”

“Fine.” Dolvek coughed. “Thank you for warning us and for including me in these talks.”

“Does the warlord have a preference?” Yavi asked.

“It is a sign of trust to use a Skreel knife provided by your host,” Tsan said, improvising as rapidly as she could, “but it should not be a large impediment to our endeavor—”

“Skreel knife,” Dolvek wheezed. “Polite.”

“Me, too,” Yavi chirped.

<> a newly Named Sri'Zaur, whose Zaurtol was insufficiently crisp for Tsan's tastes, tapped in a hesitant cadence. She tried to catch the scent, but he was so new his pheromones were too easily masked by the others who'd worked this section of cavern more regularly. Braja? Brana? She couldn't make it out.

<> Tsan tapped, trying to conceal her irritation both from any who would overhear and from her guests.

<>

Probably?!
Tsan guided the two in a circuitous route to the throne room so they couldn't find the way to or from it easily without a guide. She did it more out of habit than the belief that they might cause problems, the same habit that had made her take them through winding loops for an extra day in the tunnel from Rin'Saen Gorge.

Claws clicking angrily on the stone, she tried to keep a measured pace, finally standing on her hind legs to check her gait more naturally.
Hard to believe anyone walking on two legs is in a hurry.

*

Get up
, the voice shouted,
your General Tsan has the blood of a Vaelsilyn with her.

“Her?” Xastix thrashed, muscles rigid as his attendants struggled to apply salve to the foul-smelling ruin his back had become. What scales remained were curled and dry, flaking away or matted with dark blood or salve. Seizing the smallest of the two fawning creatures, Xastix sank his teeth into its throat to stifle a scream.

“Should we try armor, Warlord?” the survivor asked, trembling. Pulsing between his shoulder blades, the once blue shard had taken on a red glow, the flesh around it black and necrotic, pustules oozing a yellowish miasma. He had, at times, believed the voice in his head to be his Ghaiattri patron. Each shard-slotted being had one, whether they were ever connected by the filling of the slot with a shard of the World Crystal or not. He decided it no longer mattered. Kilke had commanded him to make an offering of the blood of an Aern, an Eldrennai, and a Vaelsilyn. Two of those samples were in sealed vials awaiting the arrival of the third.

Kilke had promised him an increase in all things: strength, stamina, dexterity, mental acuity, if he only poured out the blood as an offering. Forefront in Xastix's mind was the promise of an end to the torment inflicted upon him by the shard in his back.

“You will need,” Xastix panted, “four strong . . . Sri'Zaur. My personal guard. Tell them Kilke . . . tests. My. Faith. Here at. The final step. Of my. Ascension.”

We are so close to victory, you weak, pathetic reptile!
the voice berated him.
Help with your armor. Can't even stand under your own power and be steady. Must I do everything?

Four guards entered, but Xastix dismissed them imperiously. Pain still ruled his back, but an extra measure of will ruled the rest of him. As the voice commanded, Xastix felt his body obey.

Put the armor on! No screaming, screeching, or mewling. That's right. Over your head. Do it!

Girded in blue-tinted armor made from the scales of the Great Dragon Serphyn, Warlord Xastix could imagine himself in a world without pain. His inner tyrant gave him focus, demon or not, pushing him forward.

Its insults kept him moving, one paw ahead of the other. Reaching the throne room deserved a pounding of drums and the declaration of a feast. It was too bright. Light flowed in from inset reflectors, illuminating the two long quartz tables lining the walls, displaying war plunder and artifacts of previous ages. Against the rear wall, the head of a decapitated god sat upon the Throne of Scale. Gold-colored flesh was accented by two curling crimson horns on its brow, Kilke's reptilian eyes, so reassuring despite the human cast to his facial features, tracked Xastix as the warlord rested the bulk of his weight on one marble table. Claws rested close to one of his favorite treasures, the skull of an Eldrennai, teeth replaced with a full set of Aernese teeth. Almost as an afterthought, he picked it up, carrying it with him to the throne made from the bones of conquered foes and upholstered with the scaly skins of defeated warlords. At its base sat two of the three samples of blood his god required.

“I have the last sample,” Xastix said weakly. “Your test will be completed faithfully according to your secret purpose.” Falling to all fours before the throne, Xastix set the skull between the blood samples and knelt before his god.

Kilke did not comment, but looking into his fathomless eyes calmed the warlord. By the time he heard the familiar tapping of Tsan requesting entry, he was composed enough to stand.

*

Tsan struggled to conceal her surprise at the condition of the warlord. Once strong and hale, he seemed gaunt and wasted, and the red blotch of scales between Xastix's eye ridges had turned black and now wept a milky substance. Eyes like those of a wild beast in a trap greeted Tsan's gaze, rolling in an unfocused manner as if the warlord were trying to track the flight of a very swift insect.

“You may approach,” Xastix hissed.

“Warlord Xastix.” Tsan dipped low, baring her throat submissively. “May I present representatives from The Parliament of Ages and the Eldren Plains. Princess Yavi of the Vael and Prince Dolvek of the Eldrennai.”

Silence.

Princess Yavi, eyes down out of respect, waited patiently to be recognized. Dolvek gawped openly both at Kilke's head and at the warlord's obvious ill health, before his manners asserted themselves and he bowed low.

Silence.

“I have informed them of the requirement to shed blood as a sign of sincerity before any further discussion of treaties can begin.”

“Blood,” Xastix muttered. “Yes, the blood is . . . required.”

<> Tsan tapped with her tail, <>

Four black-scaled Sri'Zaur entered; two took positions on either side of the throne, and the other two stood between the guests and the warlord. One of them offered Tsan his own Skreel knife.

“Princess Yavi.” Tsan took the blade, offering it to her hilt first. “Would you do us the honor of opening our talks?”

Yavi nodded, reaching for the Skreel knife, opening her mouth to speak as she lifted her head to find the eyes of the warlord, but what came out instead of pleasantries was a scream.

*

“It's a demon, Dolvek,” Yavi shouted, “and a monster and something I don't even have a word for!”

More than anything, Dolvek wanted Yavi to be wrong—for this all to be some mistake, but it was Yavi who had looked at the unawakened Aernese Prototype and seen the tortured spirit, driven mad by pain, still clinging to it. It had been Yavi who had looked at the warsuits in that same display and known they were alive and sentient. He wished, in the split instant of decision, that she were some silly, pretty thing who hadn't killed more Zaur at Oot, faster, better, and more tactically than he had.

But she had done all of those things, and despite how much he needed this to work, how much he wanted to establish a treaty, to have some tangible proof he was worthy of the blood of his father that had spilled out at Oot for his people . . . possibly because Dolvek himself had been too arrogant, too stupid, too tied up in his own false little world to do anything remotely useful for the entirety of his existence. While Yavi, though silly and happy and so desirous of peace, had been willing to take even him, Dolvek, into her kingdom to try and save him.

For all those reasons and a thousand more he could not articulate, Dolvek did not question. Instead, throwing open his connection to the elemental planes of earth and air, Dolvek acted.

What he did not do was grab the knife.

*

“I apologize, Princess,” Dolvek shouted as he seized her by the waist and shot for the ceiling. A sharp yelp ripped through her as the Skreel knife, slapped harshly by the ascent, slashed the back of her arm. Too shocked to even process she had been grabbed, Yavi gawped, eyes wide as the rock ceiling tore itself apart, making way for their rapid exit. Fire blazed from Dolvek's outstretched palm, filling the hole left in their wake with flame.

“I very much need you to tell me,” Dolvek said, his voice shaking as they reached the open air, slamming the earth behind them back together with a closed fist, “that you were not joking about the monster.”

Yavi tore his mask off and twisted around to kiss him full on the mouth, which she hoped even a male-type person as thick-headed as Dolvek would understand as a very firm yes.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Dolvek told her, chest heaving as his breath came in ragged pants, almost falling from the sky except that then he might have dropped her.

“I
did
thank you.” Yavi quirked her lips at him, brows furrowed. “That's what the kissing was about.”

“It wasn't a prompt,” Dolvek laughed. “The thanks was genuine. Whatever that thing was, I would have stood there like an idiot and been eaten, hoping all the while it would sign a treaty with me.”

“Warlord Xastix is tied to a Ghaiattri, and his shard of the world crystal has gone terribly insane.” Yavi kissed him again. “And there is another soul inside him, like a parasite, belonging but evil. I've never seen anything, even a Ghaiattri, that was actually pure evil before, but whatever is inside the warlord . . . it wants nothing good.”

“I'll set us down and then you can ride on my back so you won't have to endure being held,” Dolvek told her.

“No.” She put the backs of her hands on either side of his face, wrists crossed beneath his chin. “You must not land on that mountain. Get us out of here as fast as you can. Take us . . . take us . . .”

“Back to Hashan and Warrune?”

“Fort Sunder first.” Yavi wrapped her arms around him. “Here, just so it is easier to carry me. Once we're free of the mountain, I'll be able to fly with the spirits for a while.”

“Yes, Princess,” Dolvek answered.
So that
, he thought,
is what it feels like to do one thing right. It's a start.

CHAPTER 41

THE TRUE ENEMY

Tsan grabbed for the Skreel knife, leaping free of the fire and rubble. Neither as lucky nor as quick, the two guards nearest her lay crushed under a small mound of rubble. Rocks had cracked one marble table; the artifacts displayed upon it lay broken or scattered. On either side of Warlord Xastix, his guards moved to get him out of the chamber only to find themselves hurled against the walls, like string-cut marionettes.

“The blood?” Xastix hissed.

Checking the blade, Tsan prayed she had been right. She thought the knife had slashed the Weed during her rapid ascent with the Eldrennai. And . . . yes . . . there it was on the blade—a trace of blood running down the length of the edge.

“Is it enough?” Tsan asked, offering the blade to her warlord.

“Yes!” Xastix danced on his hind legs, twirling amid the remains of his guards and laughing wildly. “Now for the offering.”

“What offering, you fool?” said an entirely different voice, using the warlord's throat. “You'll put the blood on the skull, you won't pour it out for some useless god!”