Oathkeeper, p.24
Oathkeeper, page 24
So weird to have Overwatches who were so old their numbers were their symbols send data to her mind. Stranger still to have gotten used to them enough that not having Amber and Feagus covering her had become awkward. Did her core Overwatches feel the same about her age? Of course, Amber had replaced her father when he’d died and chosen to be merged with the souls of all Aern. Rae’en wondered if it annoyed Amber to no longer be the highest-ranking Aernese female now that Rae’en had become First.
No, kholster Rae’en, Amber replied. That’s a younger Aern’s concern.
Sorry, Rae’en thought back. I didn’t mean to send that.
You didn’t send anything, Amber thought, I just felt the edge of it and I can read you well. You think a lot like your father.
That’s high praise, Rae’en thought.
Yes, it often is. Amber paused a moment. And praise is how I meant it in this instance, but you could do with a little more of your brother’s viewpoint, too. Oh, and Vander’s still fine by the way. Sleeping soundly.
Thanks for watching him, Rae’en thought. I know others could have done it, but we’ll both rest easier having you and Feagus right there with him.
I think they are about to start, Glayne interrupted. On your right.
Rae’en inclined her head toward a hunchbacked figure with a deformed skull shambling forward, flanked by Crystal Knights and Elementalists on either side.
The guardian of the throne thing, Varvost prompted.
Right, she thought back. It had slipped her mind completely in all the rush and chaos. Thanks.
“I apologize, kholster Rae’en,” the elf purred. “Prince Rivvek has asked if you wouldn’t mind observing the proceedings from the throne.”
The name Sargus scrolled under the Aiannai’s image in her mind’s eye in Bloodmane’s elegant script. An image of the Aiannai as he truly was without his false hunch and haffet disguise and of Bloodmane etching Zhan’s scars into his back flashed through Rae’en head.
He’s an Oathkeeper, Glayne thought at her. Safe to trust him, like as not.
“There will be no objections?” Rae’en asked.
“No further objections.” Sargus bowed. “It is a statement of acknowledged authority Prince Rivvek feels imperative. Not necessarily for today’s audience, but—”
“I have no objections.”
Kholster Rae’en, I’m sorry, but you should know that Prince Dolvek is on his way to the capital to interrupt the ceremony.
It was on the tip of her mind to tease Bloodmane, call him something mean, but she couldn’t do it. In the rush of things, she was glad to have him in her head. His steady calm was balm to her mind, his advice, his presence reassuring.
What does that idiot think he’s going to do about it? Isn’t he supposed to be at South Watch?
He slipped away from the group. I apologize. I—
Don’t worry about it, Bloodmane, Rae’en thought. If he shows his stumpy little ears here, I’ll kill him just like I killed his father. Rae’en growled. Wait. I have a better idea.
“Hey.” Pausing at the top of the steps to the throne, Rae’en tapped Sargus’s fake hump. “Prince Dimwit has abandoned his post and I am reliably informed it is his intent to disrupt the Test of Four. What happens if he does that, Sargus?”
Sargus blinked. “Under the old law, an acknowledged sibling in good standing may challenge his brother’s right to rule and demand a trial by elements, but—”
“Good standing?” Rae’en nodded. You said he left without leave?
Yes.
You were officially kholstering him?
I was.
“I am further informed that he left his post without permission from his kholster . . . General Bloodmane.” Rae’en showed her doubled canines in a wolfish grin. “Does that leave him in good standing?”
“No, it does not.” Sargus bowed.
“Fantastic. Then as kholster of your realm’s defense by virtue of command having been given to my warsuit, I declare Prince Dolvek a traitor and order that he be killed on sight.”
Glayne? Bloodmane? If you don’t mind sending the word around?
*
How dare they?!
Dolvek rocketed across the Eldren Plains, propelled by a roaring column of elemental air. Salt trails of anger and grief dotted cheeks flushed red with rage. Sorrow felt bitter and wasteful to him, but fury could be wed to action. He could recall times when he would have charged into battle wearing a breastplate of conjured crystal, but no more. The sun heated the steel of his new armor.
They could call him stupid, but it had only taken him one encounter with the Zaur to understand the foolishness of the “crystal” plate employed by the knights of his order. Summoned crystal made marvelous armor for fighting humans or other Eldrennai, but against Zaur or Aern . . . something non-magical as a base became necessity.
Even then, the armorers at the watch city had looked at him like he was a fool when he patiently described what he wanted made for his personal use. Jolsit and the others could wear full plate all they wanted, but Dolvek needed to maneuver. He did have to give the armorers credit though; once he’d explained what he wanted, they’d done an excellent job with it: a steel demi-cuirass, spaulders, and vambraces over blue brigandine, reinforced with mail. The armorer hadn’t had time to finish the legs, so he wore black high boots to protect his legs below the cuisses.
He hoped it would still give him some protection from Skreel blade slashes, which would serve, but the next time one of those cursed reptiles tried to sink its fangs into him, Dolvek wanted them to break. Flexing his brigandine gloves, he smiled. They still weren’t exactly right, but they would be easy to cast in.
The only nod he allowed to his former attire was a cloak of dark blue with the royal seal, three intertwined castles, embroidered in silver thread across the back. He wore the hood high, buttoned into place over his three-quarter helm with a handy snap attached to the leather of his flying goggles. Dolvek had thought the goggles a stupid and ugly affectation of lazy Aeromancers until he’d gone flying in battle amid the dust and debris raised by the Geomancers and Pyromancers under Bloodmane’s command. As it was, he had come to regret his own refusal to wear a scarf or mask to cover his mouth and nose.
He accomplished the same thing with a touch of Aeromancy, but it was yet one more spell of which he had to keep track. Reaching back to touch the hilt of his sword, actually one of Jolsit’s spares, he pictured his father’s face. Past arguments flowed through him as his shadow stretched out on the plains beneath.
They had never agreed about anything: not the Aern, the Vaelsilyn . . . not even elemancy. All of those clashes of word and magic lay on his heart, and he wanted to feel bad about them, to sense some form of regret, but rather than regretting the fights, rage that they would never have another one drove him on. So the Eldrennai had done terrible things to the beings they had created. Once they were freed, once as much amends as seemed reasonable had been made, what gave the Aern the right to come marching in and destroy everything? Some promise? And even if they were Oathbound to keep it, with Kholster dead and the oath nullified, how dare his daughter choose such barbarism.
To extract promises from the king and then to murder him . . .
A new surge of wrath pushed him on.
And Rivvek.
Flames curled round the edge of Dolvek’s gauntlets. To invite their father’s killer to attend his Test of Four? Dolvek had been prepared to accept his brother as his father’s chosen successor, had expected the choice for decades, despite his older brother’s . . . disability, but this . . . this . . . outrage. It could not stand. Dolvek refused to let it.
*
Sitting on the side of the Big Road, eating a bit of raw hare, wind blowing through her head petals, Yavi spotted a figure flying in the distance, trailing fire in his wake, a wounded heart streaking through the sky.
Looking at him through spirit eyes, she knew him at once. Rage, pride, hurt, and vengeance in such quantities, combined with the working of multiple elements at once, meant it had to be a member of the royal family, and the only member she could think of who would be headed from the outskirts toward Port Ammond with revenge in his heart . . . well, it didn’t take a very clever daisy to forecast that weather.
“Dolvek!” she shouted, flinging the remnants of her meal far from the road so the scavengers could eat it more safely. “Prince Dolvek!”
*
Dry scales had all but flaked away from Tsan’s body as they traveled toward the twin trees of Hashan and Warrune. She plucked the last stubborn remnant of her male skin away from the back of her neck with an absent flick of her hind paws. Surely it would be more appropriate to meet with Queen Kari with her new scales unblemished by the detritus of her former self. By the time they’d reached the outskirts of the twin trees, her Root Guard escorts were gawking openly.
“My gender switch,” Tsan explained to the one-armed one. Arri? Tsan noted the location of various guard posts overhead in the branches, but only out of habit.
Hardwoods grew larger toward the center of The Parliament of Ages, but she recognized on the macro scale what she had destroyed in miniature at Tranduvallu. Each outpost grew at the optimum distance from each adjacent outpost and the twin trees at their center. She assumed the Vael, of all races, knew why that happened, but even if they didn’t, it confirmed a suspicion Tsan had held for hundreds of years. The Vael did not arrange their cities themselves. Not exactly. The Root Trees followed a growth pattern similar to that of leaves on a plant. Each leaf or sprout at the perfect angle needed to maximize access to resources and minimize duplicated effort.
“Sooo,” Arri asked. “You’re a boy-type person now?”
“The reverse,” Tsan answered, not sparing the conversation much thought and focusing on her observations. So the trees were arranged the same, but were the numbers identical as well? Would Tsan need the information? She doubted it, but it was useful to know how to tear things down and break them apart. Would the Weeds be disturbed by her natural examination of their defenses?
Most certainly. But if they thought the Aern failed to do the same, the charming little plant people were fooling no one but themselves. As if Kholster had not spent a portion of his centennial trips to and from Oot making the exact same observations.
Rising from all fours, Tsan spared herself a moment to bask in the delight her more flexible form allowed. How wonderful for bipedal motion to feel stable and strong.
Outposts, General Tsan reminded herself.
Tranduvallu had possessed six outposts, but—though it was harder to spot here—she observed the same basic arrangements now that she knew what to look for. Based on the spacing, she guessed twelve outposts for the twin trees. Moss and hanging vines acted as natural camouflage netting to obfuscate overhead walkways, where limbs of one tree literally fused with its neighbor’s, and guard stations.
“Reverse how?” Arri asked.
“How am I a girl-type person?” Tsan flexed her foreclaws before dropping back to all fours, sighing in relief at the continued lack of pain in her joints. An urge to test herself against the nettlesome Root Guard in single combat rose and died quickly. I already proved them inferior. Why give them a second taste of poison?
“Now that I have brighter scales?” Tsan continued the thought, watching the one-armed Weed for a reaction.
“Yes,” Arri asked.
“Your reasoning isn’t flawed,” Tsan purred, cherishing the sensuous way her tongue moved in her mouth. Even the sound of her voice was more pleasant: confident, strong. “Unlike birds, who possess the color variation you seem to have expected . . . brighter for males and less colorful for females . . . more blending in for ease of hiding . . . our maker wanted to be able to tell at a glance when we changed from male to female.”
“Your maker?” Arri scratched at the stub of her arm. She shooed away a curious sproutling who peeked out at them from a walkway overhead. “Kilke?”
“No,” Tsan laughed, amused by the way her susurrant trills made the Weed recoil. “Our mutual maker.”
“What do you mean?”
Tsan tasted the scent of the Weed’s confusion with her forked tongue, but offered no explanation. If I’m going to explain this once, Tsan thought, I’d better wait until the important Weeds arrive.
CHAPTER 23
THE TEST OF FOUR
Rivvek entered from behind the throne on which Rae’en sat. She felt his presence, looming behind her, waiting for the room’s attention and for all scattered conversations to cease. Rae’en couldn’t imagine why instead of quieting down the conversation spiked until Feagus sent her the view from his vantage point.
Darkly handsome once, by an Oathbreaker’s skewed sense of aesthetics, Rivvek was the single most attractive non-Aern Rae’en had ever seen. She’d heard he was disfigured, but no one had mentioned that the so-called disfigurements were actually battle scars. Shirtless, the prince stopped next to her, smiling regally with black eyes rather like his father’s, only where Grivek’s had been guilt-haunted and pitiable, Rivvek’s gaze was confident and friendly.
Now, him I might not mind mating with, Amber thought, and Rae’en came close to choking.
“Thank you for agreeing to this, kholster Rae’en.” Prince Rivvek gave her the barest nod, granting her a spectacular view of his melted ear, the mottled pink, brown, and white at the side of his head where the hair, instead of grown long to cover the scarring, had been shaved short in a revealing arc.
Foot-long trails of what had to have been a Ghaiattri’s grip on his left side, just above the hip, like a claw print in wet clay, disappeared below the waistband of his dark-blue trousers. Rae’en realized she was staring openly at his bare chest, turned her downward gaze into a matching nod, and switched back to Feagus’s view.
The leather belt at his waist was corded in an approximation of the style Kholster had preferred, the buckle a brass gear. He carried a thin golden crown in his right hand, but if Rae’en’s breath had been taken by the scars on his front, she was mesmerized by the scars on his back.
My father’s scars, she thought as the prince moved past the throne and down the four steps toward the testing table. She hadn’t been expecting the prince to be so well-muscled, either. Eldrennai tended to have a certain softness to them. Well, Wylant didn’t. Maybe that was part of being Aiannai? Maybe her father only took the hard ones, the battle-ready?
No, she thought better of that. It wasn’t a fitness test. Being Aiannai meant you could be trusted to keep your word. It meant that you understood slavery was wrong. It meant—did it really mean all of that?
I’ve seen Aern who made it through the Demon Wars with less impressive scars, Rae’en thought at Glayne. How did he survive—?
It’s not as bad as all that, her temporary Prime Overwatch answered. Well, maybe for an elf, but my eyes—while unpleasant—aren’t the most painful injury I’ve ever felt.
Really? Rae’en asked, embarrassed she’d brought that up with Glayne of all Aern.
This was the worst of it, he sent the memory to her. She didn’t scream, but only because Glayne cut it short.
And that’s why everyone is afraid of you, Rae’en growled back. What in Kholster’s name are you thinking you—
I’m thinking there’s a reason your father put his scars on the boy’s back, Rae’en. Glayne sent her the image, not just of her father’s scars but of the winged outline of what had to be the most varied collection of elemental foci material she’d ever seen. You can ask the king about it after, but I suggest you remember that as impressive as his battle scars are, and as much of an honor it was that Kholster put his scars on the elf’s back, Grivek named him heir because he thought Rivvek could stop your army.
Point made, but don’t— She caught herself, quickly rephrasing the order as her father might have. I mean to say, I would appreciate a little more warning before you send that type of transmission again, please.
Pay attention, Feagus broke in, they’re shouting about something.
“This is unseemly, Prince Rivvek,” one of the oldest Oathbreakers in the room, Hasimak—according to her mental map—said as he stood. “There is a dress code to be maintained . . . a certain sense of decorum that—”
“No,” Rivvek said without turning to face the old Elementalist. “There is a suggested mode of dress set out by Hurrek the Third and further amended by several other kings, queens, and even yourself, High Elementalist. I counted two concordances dealing with trousers alone, but none of that is law.”
“It is—” he paused to meet the eyes of Hasimak, and a succession of other important dignitaries, before finally settling on Rae’en herself, “—merely custom. And customs are going to change.”
Rae’en flushed to meet his eyes again. Her father had once described the eyes of the royals as rat droppings stuck in bird squirt, but Rivvek’s had gone from convivial confidence to smoldering: controlled emotions, passion reined in and kept on a tight leash filled those eyes.
Try not to pant, Amber’s voice gently chided.
Amber! Rae’en admonished.
Or drool, Amber continued.
What are we drooling about? Feagus asked.
No one is drooling! Rae’en thought.
I was, Amber thought back, but only a little bit. Tell me you don’t want to see what kind of scars he’s hiding under those pants. I mean, was all that one Ghaiattri, or did two get their hands on him? And how did he get away? If he actually killed one, I think I’ll marry him.
Rae’en watched as a sketch of Prince Rivvek loomed off center of her visual of the prince himself. Each of her Overwatches save Glayne began annotating his scars, theories about how he had gotten them. Had he stopped one of the extra-dimensional beings on this side of a port gate or in their home plane beyond?
Enough. Glayne’s thoughts cut in. Take this talk to a sideboard. You’re distracting kholster Rae’en!
You’re the one who sent her memories from one of Uled’s torture sessions, Amber countered.
