I suppose I should not have called him that, but rather the Prisoner Tenedos, just as I am no longer Damastes á Cimabue, no longer Damastes the Fair as some called me in the silken pavilions of Nicias, no longer First Tribune á Cimabue, Baron Damastes of Ghazi, but merely the Prisoner Damastes.

I knew what tidings the ship bore, even before it docked from its gay buntings and the cheers of my guards as they read the signal flags.

They say the emperor died of natural causes, that his heart failed. Perhaps. But it would have taken only one enemy among his guards to cast a sorcerous spell, slip a bit of poison into his mat, or arrange a simple fall when he took his long walks along the coast, as I do, staring off toward the gray horizon, hoping for, but never being granted, the slightest glimpse of the great country of Numantia he brought to greatness and then sent down into ruin.

Sergeant Perak, who heads my guard detail, a man I have grown fond of in the year since my captivity began, said he believes the official tale, but it wasn’t disease, but the malaise of exile that sent him to his grave. A broken heart, a romantic might have put it.

But he said this very quietly, after making sure no one might overhear him. It would not do for a jailer to show the slightest warmth toward his prisoner, nor toward the cause the prisoner vowed to serve until death.

At even-meal I noted the garrison’s officers looking at me. I knew what they were wondering: How much longer would I be permitted to live?

I am, I suppose, the only tribune left of the Emperor Tenedos’s great army, save Herne, who betrayed us, and Linerges, who I understand was able to flee abroad. The only other ranking survivor might be Yonge, who vanished long ago into the crags of the Border States.

Perhaps I too will have a convenient accident, or sickness.

It matters not.

I have seen, and done, as much as one man should be permitted. I’ve cut my way through battlefields where the blood lapped around my horse’s fetlocks.

I’ve loved well twice and been betrayed once. Both those I loved are dead now, as is the part of me that loved them.

I’ve sat at the head of an army, a thousand thousand men who cheered and charged into certain death and their return to the Wheel on my command.

I’ve seen the greatest cities of Maisir and Numantia, from Kallio to the jungle borderlands, roar up in flames, flames I ordered to be set.

I’ve seen battlegrounds torn by demons called by the most evil and powerful wizards, demons who broke a column of charging cavalry when they appeared, ripped a company of spearmen apart with their talons, or sent them screaming away in madness.

I have eaten from golden plates, surrounded by silk and gentle music.

That is the one side.

There is the other:

I’ve stumbled, bleeding, from the field of war, gut-sick as I saw our banners trampled and torn by the enemy triumphant.

I’ve snatched a half-burned potato from a low fire and gnawed at it, the best and only meal I’d had for close on a week.

I’ve screamed on a witch’s pallet, while she muttered words and taped dressings around my wounds, and then spent weeks wishing for the softness of death in a recovery tent.

Yet I am not old. I am not yet forty. All that has happened came in less than fifteen years.

Fifteen years, given a few months each way, since I first met the seer named Tenedos, facing death in a deadly mountain pass of the Border States.

Fifteen years, when I rode behind the emperor, his aide, cavalry commander, and then tribune, holding close my family’s faith —
We Hold True
— although I now realize that loyalty was felt by only one of us.

He and I were the only two who were there at the beginning — and the end.

Our enemies would have said there were three:

Laish Tenedos.

Myself.

And Death, the dark manifestation of the great goddess Saionji, creator, destroyer, skull-grin tight through the folds of her cloak, swords held high, pale horse nickering, eager to strike again.

Now there are but two of us.

Myself and Death.

My last friend.

TWO

T
HE
S
EER
T
ENEDOS

My doom, and that of all Numantia, was sealed on the day I scored five goals at rõl.

This may sound like a joke — how could a horsemen’s game make Saionji rip our lands apart, casting millions back on the Wheel to await rebirth?

But there is no joke, nor was there on the day of my disgrace. The Seventeenth Ureyan Lancers took their sport most seriously.

If it hadn’t been for those five goals, the adjutant’s pride, his lying, and my subsequent disgrace, another officer might have been sent to Sulem Pass, one with less to lose, and Laish Tenedos might have died with a hillman’s spear through his throat, and the years of bloody war and dark magic might never have happened.

I was the newest officer of the regiment, having been given my sash of rank not many months earlier. I’d sought frontier duty, wanting to fight instead of drill endlessly on parade grounds, and had been lucky enough to be chosen to be a column commander with the elite Lancers, as my first posting.

My downfall was ironic, because I had been most careful, as I’ll tell later, to avoid the usual blunderings and stupidities of a junior legate. In fact, I’d been successful enough in a patrol against a wizard-bandit to be complimented by Domina Herstal, the regimental commander, only days before the rõl match brought me down.

Rõl is a simple game played on horseback across a wide, flat field. At either end is a netted enclosure, a foot wide by a foot high. There are five men to a side, and they attempt, using a mallet with a handle as tall as a man, called a hammer, to drive a wooden ball about the size of a large man’s fist into the goal. The game is played to ten points. It was a game I was particularly fond of, since it called for the best in both man and horse, and I was quite good at it — at the lycee I’d ridden forward on the Senior Team.

The regiment was, as I said, very keen on sport, particularly the adjutant, Captain of the Lower Half, Banim Lanett. Perhaps I should explain just what an adjutant is and does, because someone of his comparatively low rank should not be able to ruin anyone, even a junior legate.

An adjutant is the grease a regiment’s wheels turn on. The unit commander, Domina Herstal, might walk out on the parade ground one morning and wonder if the stones bordering the field would look better stained yellow instead of white. Captain Lanett would nod, say “What an interesting idea, Domina,” and as soon as the regimental commander was out of hearing would bellow for the troop guide and within minutes barracks would be rousted and details of men told off for painting, so when the domina came out for noon assembly, the area would be marked with tawny rocks as if a wizard had wiggled his wand. The domina would never inquire as to the circumstances, and the subject would never be brought up again unless the work had been done unsatisfactorily or the domina changed his mind once more.

Captain Lanett was a competent soldier with but one failing, although at the time I thought him a deceitful, lying bastard I’d call out if the army did not sensibly forbid dueling a higher-ranking officer.

His failing isn’t that uncommon, either, and can be found almost anywhere in civilian life as well as the military: a single weakness that hews a deep canyon through a man’s honor. For some it is women, for some it is pride, for some it is gaming.

Captain Lanett’s failing was his love of sport, more precisely rõl. Off the field, he was a model of rectitude, but once mounted, hammer in hand, he would do anything to win a match, including spearing an opponent if a weapon had been given him and the referees’ backs were turned.

The game was a match between the regiment’s troops, and I was determined my Cheetah Troop would carry the day. I had been picked to ride forward, the position most likely to score, and things were going very well. I’d driven two goals in during the first quarter and heard cheering from the twenty-five men of my column. The match had swayed back and forth down the field, a grand melee, until, in the final quarter, I’d picked up another two goals and the score was tied, 9-both. We were on the defense, and I was trying to hold back the other side’s halfback and back, my pony skittering from side to side of the grassy ground.

Captain Lanett came pelting down on our goal, tapping the wood ahead of him, about to let fly, and I was at full gallop trying to catch him. My mount was slightly faster, and I cut in from his blind side, and slashed, backhanding the ball away from him toward his goal. I heard the captain shout, but paid no mind, wheeling my pony and driving back toward the ball.

Behind me came the thunder of the captain’s horse, but I paid no mind, with an eternity to strike, that one-foot-wide goal yawning as wide as an elephant trap, and I snapped my mallet back and smashed the ball directly into the center of the net, and I bellowed victory, and there came another shout from behind.

I pulled my horse up, and turned. The adjutant had reined in, and had one hand clasped to his leg.

“You son of a bitch,” he shouted. “You fouled me back there, and now again! I’ll have your ass for this!”

He turned in his saddle and shouted to the referees, “Judges! This man struck me twice, and I wish penalty!”

BOOK: The Seer King: Book One of the Seer King Trilogy

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