The wind runner book 10.., p.99
The Wind Runner: Book 10 (The Wandering Inn), page 99
“It’s by comparison. She’s still richer than Mediv or Xem or the other smaller nations. But Illivere makes its fortunes from its industry and high number of artisans. It exports cheap goods, everything from cut stone to food to processed ore. And its people are almost all craftsmen or scholars—few laborers. And that’s because the country runs on—”
“Golems.”
The procession was close enough for Orjin to pick up the huge, lumbering shapes walking among the shorter Humans on horseback and foot. Salii caught her breath.
“Yes. They’re one of the few nations that manufactures them. The Illivere League has a powerful army, if a slow one, and their workforce never slows. They only need repairing and energy. They’ve brought some with them, obviously.”
“I see War Golems.”
The steel giants that walked ahead of Illivere were truly massive. Some of the shorter porter golems were made of stone or sand that were ‘only’ seven or eight feet tall. But the pair of giants that walked ahead of the group were fourteen feet tall. Both held flags with Illivere’s symbol on it. And it was a procession of four Golems that carried a palanquin loaded with treasures. The man who rode in front of it was fair-skinned, bespectacled, a figure who looked more at home inside reading than out in the sun. He also greeted Orjin first after his herald had called his name.
“Strongest of Pomle, this is a small token of Illivere’s gratitude for allowing us to meet on your soil today. Please accept these vintages from Illivere’s orchards, foods and delicacies from all over the league’s holdings.”
The man who stood shorter than both Orjin and Empress Nsiia was polite, well-spoken, and precise with his words. He was no ruler, but someone like Orjin, who had been given the position without the class. For all that, he seemed impossible to shake and shook Orjin’s hand fearlessly.
“Thank you, First Crafter-Magus Femithain of Illivere. We will accept your gift.”
Orjin sighed as he looked at the massive pile of goods the golems were mechanically piling up in front of him. They moved slowly, but with confidence in every move. The animals of Nsiia’s group and the horses and camels all stayed as far away from the golems as possible. Femithain bowed slightly again to Orjin and went to greet Empress Nsiia, fearless and self-contained.
That left Orjin with the huge pile of goods. And these weren’t exactly able to be squirreled away by Salii. He heard a tap as someone landed behind him. One of Pomle’s warriors had jumped to the ground. She leaned on her spear and looked at him.
“Orjin. More gifts?”
“Apparently.”
“Where do we put them?”
The Strongest of Pomle looked at the pile of food. It was all rich stuff, but it was going to rot fast in the sun, especially because there were few good places to store all of it. He waved a hand at the crowd of Pomle’s folk, who were watching Illivere’s golems make ready the camp from afar.
“Spread the word. We have drinks, food…let Salii take whatever she wants first and make sure no one takes what she claims.”
The spear-wielding warrior grinned and bounded off. In minutes, she was back, and she snagged a bottle of wine from the cargo before hundreds of Pomle’s citizens descended on the gift. They grabbed what they could carry, walked off, and those who wanted more came back for it. Orjin ignored all of it; he had no desire for the food or drinks at the moment. He was sure someone would share it with him if there was any left over later.
Femithain was clearly trying to suppress his expression as he watched a huge crowd gather and claim the rest of the goods. A little Garuda girl, barely more than a chick, ran off with a bottle of Illivere’s finest vintages and some of the others began eating or drinking the rich goods there on the spot.
Salii fought her way out of the mess, looking disgruntled. She glared at Orjin as she wiped sweat off her forehead.
“I rescued some of the goods. We’ll keep it stored for later, or perhaps to trade. Did you have to let the rest of it be eaten now?”
“We don’t have many places to store so much. And for what occasion would we save it? If you wanted, we could have traded all of it for money.”
“Yes, but Crafter-Magus Femithain clearly intended these as a gift to you.”
The Drake looked pointedly at Orjin. He shrugged.
“He gave it to Pomle. And it is Pomle who enjoys his gift. It’s fairly done. You know that.”
“Yes, but some tact—”
“Another group is coming. South.”
“Savere. Hold on, I’d better get the rest of the goods into shelter.”
“Why?”
Salii pointed up. Orjin stared at the skies and blinked. The bare, blue skies had suddenly clouded over. As the distant procession drew nearer, a miracle happened.
Rain began to fall. At first a drizzle, then a shower. It soaked the wet earth. Pomle’s people looked up, surprised. The watering hole greedily drank the liquid as it ran into the space. The rest wet the earth, and before the waters could truly begin to conjure a flood, the rains stopped. The clouds vanished.
The Siren of Savere walked forwards, and the waters formed a path in the sands for her.
Orjin stared.
If Tiqr was a land of beasts and people, and Illivere one of regulation and commerce, and Pomle free chaos, then Savere fell into a position between Tiqr and Illivere. Its people were wild. They rode forwards with no semblance of order, laughing. And more than one looked to Orjin like folk from the waters. Indeed, some were even walking alongside the woman walking in the center of the trail of water.
Drowned People. Children of the ocean. And the chaotic warriors who raced ahead of their [Queen]. But it was the Siren who made the biggest impact as the waters she called lapped at the feet of those gathered in the watering grounds. Water, that most precious of things in dry Chandrar. And here was a [Mage] who controlled it.
“I am Revine, Siren of Savere. I have come to speak of the King of Destruction.”
That was all Revine said. She offered no greetings to Orjin, nor to the other monarchs. She stood at the watering hole and looked down at it. Her folk spread out, laughing and pointing at the animals of Tiqr and the Golems of Illivere as if they were some huge jest. The Drowned People stood behind Revine.
A child wandered up to the Siren of Savere as she surveyed the watering hole. She picked her nose as she stared up at Revine. The Siren stared at her and then at the small watering hole.
“Is this all the water Pomle has, child?”
“Yes? Can you conjure rain?”
“Yes. And my people demand it of me. Without water, the Drowned Folk wither and die. Without water, all things die. This water is…insufficient. So let more fall.”
The Siren raised her hand. And the clouds gathered. Orjin looked up and saw more water begin to fall from the skies. Just like that. At first a shower, then a torrent.
Pomle’s citizens ran for cover. The other monarchs retreated, some shouting insults. Femithain shook his head as his Golems set up covering for his people. Empress Nsiia stood in the rains and laughed as her animals enjoyed the rain. And Orjin? He shook his head.
“A dangerous ruler. The most dangerous of the three in a way.”
He looked at Salii. The Drake wiped water off her scales as she tried to cover her clipboard.
“The most powerful magically, at least. She’s drawing the water from the atmosphere. It will be twice as dry in Pomle for a while after this.”
Orjin could only shrug at that. He watched the Siren of Savere for another moment. And then he turned away.
“One more, isn’t there?”
“Yes. Nerrhavia has the farthest to come. But they swore they would be here. And I don’t doubt it.”
The [Secretary] wasn’t wrong. The rains lasted for an hour, by which time the ground was saturated and the watering hole overflowing. At Salii’s request, it was even widened by people with shovels and sticks to contain more water. The sun had returned, and Orjin’s damp skin was drying by the time he looked east a final time and saw them.
Chariots. Dozens, possibly as many as a hundred, racing across the ground. This was an army, and all the other monarchs looked up. Some were uneasy, others just wary. The Siren of Savere narrowed her eyes as her cohort gathered around her. For if her country was mighty, if Tiqr and Illivere were both major powers, here came a colossus of nations. Even Orjin was familiar with it.
Nerrhavia Fallen, one of the largest nations of Chandrar. And because of that, the most powerful, wealthiest, and most populated nation of all those gathered here today. A kingdom of String-people, vast beyond belief. That was who rode the chariots into Pomle, riding around the other groups. Bright folk, their skin glossy, almost shining in the light.
String-people. Made of silk. If cotton was to normal flesh, then silk was something beyond that when Stitch-people made their bodies out of the stuff. They looked inhumanly beautiful and graceful, and their features were perfect. Of course; they’d stitched their appearances out of cloth. They could be what their hearts desired. So they drove their chariots in, hundreds of perfect folk. And the [Queen] who rode a chariot of gold pulled by two white stallions was the most beautiful of all.
Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia was light brown of skin with flawless flowing black hair and skin softer than should have been possible. Her eyes sparkled like brilliant emeralds, and her features were perfect down to the line of her nose, to her lips. She moved like she was dancing at every moment, and she possessed a radiance about her. An aura.
She was a monster to Orjin. He looked at her once as she stepped down from her chariot, and he knew her body was made of some fabric more expensive than silk. She wore it, she had made her features of it, and she had become something…strange. He was attracted to her, and so was everyone who beheld Yisame. They stared, men and women alike. Even the animals. That was what made her terrifying. The [Queen]’s escorts followed her, forming a procession of warriors and servants, each more fantastic than the last. All made of silk.
Graceful, beautiful, and strong. Silk provided little protection against slashing weapons compared to regular cotton, but warriors who were made of the stuff were lightweight, stronger than normal, and hard to damage with fists or blunt weapons. It was also one of the most expensive of fabrics, manufactured only in nations like Nerrhavia. Yet all of Yisame’s escort was made of the stuff.
It was a show of power. Orjin of Pomle watched with Salii for two minutes and then went to get a drink of water. The procession was still coming in after that, so he walked off and had a drink from the watering hole while he heard chariots roll in and horses whinny.
Salii found Orjin at the edge of the pool. She glared at him.
“Orjin, she’s waiting for you!”
“Who?”
“Queen Yisame! She’s greeted the other monarchs!”
Orjin got up reluctantly. He walked back and found that the ruler of Nerrhavia was indeed waiting for him. She looked down her nose at him and his still-damp skirt. Her attendants looked askance at Orjin’s bare chest and flawed body.
“Strongest of Pomle?”
The word was half-question, half-mockery at the title. Orjin stared up at the beautiful face, the mischievous smile and distant look, as if Yisame were looking down at him despite Orjin being taller. He nodded curtly.
“Some call me that. I am Orjin of Pomle. And you are welcome in Pomle, so long as you abide by the laws of hospitality, Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia.”
“I will consider it. But I have come far to speak only of one man. All else is paltry. You may go. Pomle has nothing I wish of you.”
Yisame flicked her wrist at Orjin, and the others around her laughed. Orjin turned to go without so much as a word. Nerrhavia had nothing he wished for either.
So they were gathered here. Four major nations of Tiqr, Savere, Nerrhavia, and Illivere. A few other monarchs had arrived, their entrances completely overshadowed or rained over by the other, larger nations. To Orjin, it was like seeing four adults walking among children.
Empress Nsiia of Tiqr.
Crafter-Magus Femithain of the Illivere League.
Revine, the Siren of Savere.
And [Queen] Yisame of Nerrhavia Fallen.
They were the names to remember here. Each knew the others, if not by face, then by name. By presence. Each one was highest in level in their own way. Although of the four…it was strange. Femithain might have been the highest-level, but he was no ruler. Revine was mighty as a [Mage], but Orjin thought it was Empress Nsiia who boasted the highest level as a ruler of all of them.
And by contrast, Yisame felt like the lowest-level if he closed his eyes and compared her presence, not her escort. Compared to them, the lesser monarchs hovered about, striking a mix between courtesy and their own self-importance. It took a while for the introductions to be finished, and in that time, Orjin realized Nerrhavia and some of the other nations had brought delicacies to be served to those attending. Since he was apparently included in that austere gathering, he ate his fill as he waited for things to get interesting or for everyone to go away.
The actual meeting, as such, was very short. Informal, even. The gathered rulers waited about, perhaps for Orjin or Salii to ask one of them to speak. But why would Pomle do that? Eventually, the rulers realized they would have to take matters into their own hands and broke up, some talking to another and others gathering in small groups to talk while their retainers hovered about them.
It was rather like watching groups of birds mingle together. Orjin, eating some roasted meats that tasted like a bird of some sort, sat patiently on the ground. His ears, like his eyes and nose, were far stronger than they should be, and he could hear snippets of conversations. From some. At times, there would be pockets of silence as one of the monarchs deployed a spell or Skill that muffled Orjin’s hearing. The sensation was unpleasant, like cotton wedged deeply in the ear.
No one was happy about the King of Destruction’s letter. But the degree to which they were concerned varied from monarch to monarch. Femithain was concerned and made his objection clear to Revine as they spoke together.
“He wants his people back. His veterans. If other nations allow this, a number of Reim’s scattered allies might reach his kingdom without making enemies of every nation around them.”
“A clever trick.”
The Siren’s voice was low, her gaze piercing. She glared past Illivere at some of the haughty Stitch-Folk from Nerrhavia. She looked back at the Crafter-Magus.
“His allies are scattered, but with this, he could guarantee their safe passage. And you are right. There are many who fought for the King of Destruction. He could form an army of experienced soldiers. It strengthens Reim and buys him time against his enemies.”
“However, by the same token, he has pledged to attack no one.”
“You think that matters? The King of Destruction will find an excuse. He always has. What will stop him from breaking his vow when he has grown enough in strength?”
“His enemies, one suspects. But you are correct, Siren Revine. This benefits Reim. The question is: will enough nations defy his imposed ‘peace’? This is one such gathering, but I would not commit Illivere to such a course of action.”
“…No. No, it would make targets out of our nations. That is true enough. And yet, what if Nerrhavia dared? The Empire of Sands is already the King of Destruction’s enemy. He cannot fight on too many fronts.”
“But how many might he fight on? I have heard reports the Lord of the Skies and his tribe are raiding the outskirts of the Empire of Sands constantly. If he were to send Takhatres against the League of Illivere, just one of his Seven—”
“He cannot stand against all of us.”
“But who is ‘us’, Siren? I came here to discuss a course of action, but fighting the King of Destruction does not appeal to me.”
That was Illivere. Cautious and refusing to commit. Whereas Revine, the Siren of Savere, was open about her hatred for Flos. On the other hand, Empress Nsiia and Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia—
“I cared little for the proclamation, Queen Yisame. But tell me, does Nerrhavia desire war? You sent no army against Reim with the coalition, and you were surely able to do so.”
Yisame brushed her hair back impatiently, wrinkling her nose as Nsiia fed one of her hyenas by hand.
“I did not care to. It is true that the smaller nations petitioned Nerrhavia to enter the battle. What of it? Nerrhavia does not fear the King of Destruction. Nor do I wish to spend the time and energy it would take to battle his nation. The only thing that has roused my ire is his demands of my nation. In that, Flos of Reim has erred and provoked my response. And you, Empress of Beasts?”
Nsiia grinned up at Yisame’s face as the hyena prowled away.
“I counted Flos of Reim as my ally, once. Tiqr will abide by his peace and his request. It is a simple thing to answer, isn’t it?”
---
“She said that? Curious.”
Femithain and Yisame stood together, speaking quietly. The Queen of Nerrhavia looked down at him.
“And you, Crafter-Magus? What does the assembled will of Illivere think? Or is it paralyzed by fear?”
The Crafter-Magus’ gaze didn’t waver as he adjusted his spectacles.
“Illivere waits and thinks, Queen Yisame. There are actions that benefit Illivere. I think war does not benefit Illivere. On the other hand, it benefits few nations, Nerrhavia included. I came to ascertain if I had allies…or enemies before choosing my next course.”
He held Yisame’s gaze, not affected by her charms. She hesitated.
“Very well. I withdraw my words.”
“I thank you for that. As for Empress Nsiia, she seems to be held in her course. May I ask if Nerrhavia is the same?”
“How do you mean?”
“Nerrhavia is an enemy of Reim, or at least, no friend. It would fain see the King of Destruction ended. But Flos of Reim is battling the Empire of Sands, is he not?”
“So?”
“Is the Emperor of Sands an enemy to Nerrhavia? I’ve heard he is of the String-people. And he claims…”
