A Heart of Blood and Ashes Page 3
But for one, the same ministers sat on the council as the last time Maddek had come before them. On the far left was Nayil. The Parsathean minister also only wore a cloth over his belt, with the longer length draped over his shoulder, but Maddek doubted that Omer ever chided the older man for his lack of clothing. A queen’s age past, in battle against one of the Destroyer’s warlords, Nayil had lost his right hand, and a poisoned blade had withered the strength on his left side. He’d stopped wearing a warrior’s braids and had grown his beard long. Yet his quiet and formidable power never waned, and his patience and loyalty were endless.
For those reasons, Maddek’s parents had considered Nayil their closest friend and advisor. They had fought the Destroyer together and helped form the alliance together. Now the older man’s expression brightened at the sight of Maddek, but grief lay heavily on his lined face, and he appeared to have aged ten years in the three seasons since Maddek had last seen him.
Maddek bowed his head in Nayil’s direction. In his role as an alliance commander, he should not show more respect to any one minister over another—but he did respect Nayil above all others and would never pretend otherwise.
Beside him sat the Gogean minister, Kintus, whose sharp expression often matched the words on her scythe of a tongue. As the southernmost realm, Goge would suffer more than any other if the Farian savages were not checked, yet its every contribution to the alliance had to be pried from the woman’s begrudging fingers.
Unlike Parsathe, where everyone was taught to ride and hunt and fight, in the southern realms only a small number of citizens became soldiers. So the cities contributed a few squadrons to the alliance’s army and made up the difference with goods that the council deemed were of equal value. For Goge, that meant sending grain for every Parsathean warrior and horse.
Kintus looked upon Maddek now with a bitter scowl, which he imagined was the same face she would wear if anyone requested air to breathe while they passed through Gogean lands. But he would ask nothing of her. Everything his army required while traveling through Ephorn would come from the woman to her right—Pella, Ephorn’s minister and one of Muda’s high priestesses.
Pella did not sit on the court while serving on the alliance council, yet her gray hair was still sheared closely to her bronze scalp. Over her wrapped linens she wore Muda’s robes, the heavy cloth dyed the deep orange of that goddess’s ever-changing and ever-burning fire. Thin gold chains circled her neck, her wrists, and her ankles—signifying the law by which she was always bound. Yet those chains were malleable. Pella herself often seemed forged of steel, and Maddek appreciated her all the more for it.
He could not feel the same toward the Syssian minister who claimed the seat beside her. Bazir had been appointed to the council by his father, Syssia’s regent king. Bazir’s moonstone eyes also marked him as a son of the House of Nyset and a descendant of that great Syssian warrior-queen, but there was nothing of a warrior that Maddek could see in him.
Bazir had strength enough in his linen-wrapped limbs. He had skill with a sword and upon a horse. But he had not a warrior’s plain speak—his tongue was as slick as his blue silk robes, and his every word stank of indolent rot. He had not a warrior’s honor, which demanded that he fight in service of his people. Instead he was driven by self-interest, just as his father was. From the moment Zhalen had married the last living daughter of Nyset’s bloodline, his seed had corrupted Syssia’s ruling house with selfish ambition. Zhalen did not look upon Syssia’s abundance of riches as a gift from the gods, as did the rulers and citizens of Ephorn. Instead the regent king took Syssia’s wealth as his due, owed to him by virtue of his superior position and birth.
So did his sons. Bazir gazed upon Maddek now with his usual unconcealed disdain—a disdain that frequently deepened to frustration when Bazir realized his opinion touched Maddek not at all, except to amuse him.
As if Maddek would ever be touched by the contempt of an overindulged sly-tongue. If the Parsatheans still raided their neighbors, Maddek often thought he would lead his warriors against Syssia first, simply to watch disdain give way to terror in Bazir’s pale eyes.
That would amuse Maddek even more.
Never would he ride against the man at Bazir’s left, however—Gareth, the Tolehi minister who’d served as a captain under Maddek’s mother in the alliance’s campaign against Stranik’s Fang. With steady hands and a steadier heart in battle, Gareth had also proved himself a quietly stubborn and thoughtful addition to the alliance council—and it was his son Dagoneh who had taken over Maddek’s command on the Lave.
Maddek was unacquainted with the last man at the table. Rugus’s new minister was hardly more than a boy. But Maddek needed no name to know who he was. Those moonstone eyes spoke for him.
So did Pella. “Commander Maddek, you have not yet met the newest member of our council—Lord Tyzen of Rugus.”
Of Rugus now, but originally of Syssia. With those pearlescent eyes, Tyzen must be brother to Bazir—and also brother to King Aezil, who had gained the Rugusian throne following King Latan’s death by poison. That king’s murderer had not been discovered, but everyone who spoke of it suspected that Aezil had been responsible.
So now two of Zhalen’s sons sat upon the council, and another son ruled Rugus—and their reins were held by the regent king of a rotten house.
This could not lead to the stronger alliance that Maddek’s parents had been fighting for.
With calm elegance, the youth inclined his head toward Maddek. “Commander.”
Maddek merely looked upon him. Though as tall as his brother, with the same dark hair and bronze skin, Tyzen did not appear to have even reached his bearded age. Perhaps he fully shaved his jaw, as most Parsathean warriors did. But Maddek suspected that nothing yet grew in.
Eyes ghostly pale, the boy regarded him with undisguised curiosity, as if oblivious to the insult of Maddek’s silence.
His brother was not oblivious. Bazir’s disdain darkened to anger, a flush rising over his cheeks.
Smoothly Pella spoke before Bazir could. “We mourn your queen and king with you, Commander Maddek. And we are sorry a messenger could not have been more fleet.”
Maddek bowed his head. “Silver-fingered Rani has flown them back into Temra’s arms, so not even the swiftest horse could have changed their course, Lady Pella. It is as it is.”
And there was a distance to be crossed. The news had to travel from Parsathe to Ephorn, then from the council to the banks of the Lave. A full season would pass between his parents’ deaths and Maddek’s return home. That could not be helped.
Yet now he could finally learn what had befallen them. He looked to Nayil, but before Maddek could speak, Kintus’s sharp voice pulled his attention to her.
“We knew that you would return home upon receiving word, Commander, but we did not expect to see an entire army behind you. Have you withdrawn every Parsathean warrior from the Lave encampment?”
Maddek met the Gogean minister’s gaze squarely. She would demand this answer of him now? Before he could speak another word of his queen and king?
But a season had passed since their deaths, and Kintus already knew what had happened to his parents. Those questions would not burn in her mind as brightly as they still did in Maddek’s—and when Kintus looked at him, she likely saw him only as the alliance’s commander, not a son.
So he swallowed his questions for the moment. “I have.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
Irritation tightened Nayil’s weathered face as he looked to the woman beside him, but it was Pella who said, “Lord Nayil has already explained that every Parsathean must be present when their tribes gather to choose their new Ran, so that they may raise their voices in support or opposition.”
That did not satisfy Kintus of Goge. “Could not the warriors have sent word of their choice, instead? Could not the numbers hav
e been taken at the encampment and counted among the voices?”
Maddek stared at her, disbelief and disgust rising sour to his tongue. “You would have me toss each warrior’s voice into a sack like a kernel of corn and carry it north, so that it arrives indistinguishable from the voices I carried with it?” Perhaps that was what civilization meant—in the southern realms, their kings and queens were chosen for them. Individual voices mattered little. But if civilization demanded silence, Maddek would never see the same happen to Parsathe. “They all come.”
Though his tone must have told her the matter was closed, still her mouth opened again.
Gareth of Toleh stepped in. “The boundary was not left undefended, Kintus. When we sent the message to Commander Maddek, my king also sent one hundred soldiers. Even with the Parsatheans absent, there are still a large number of alliance soldiers at the encampment, including a squadron of your own Gogean warriors. Their number can hold the river.”
Kintus’s bitter gaze swung back to Maddek. “And if the savages come in such great force that they overwhelm that number? What do we do then?”
Anger fired his tongue. “Then you will do as you have done for ages, and cower behind your walls,” he told her. Her eyes snapped wide and she looked to Nayil in outrage, but Maddek had not finished his answer. “You ask what to do? The savages will never stop coming, and they will never gather in such numbers that we can destroy them all. They will always be a threat, yet Goge does not have enough soldiers to fight them, even though you have had a full generation under the alliance’s protection to grow and harvest new warriors. Instead you made them into farmers and relied upon another wall—a wall constructed of Parsathean flesh and mortared by Parsathean blood. You did nothing to strengthen your own flesh and blood. I suggest you begin.”
“We did nothing?” Her thin lips pinched, two dull spots of color burnishing her cheeks. “You look well fed, Commander. Your giant horses appear fat. And the grain you gorge yourselves on is our flesh and blood, you reeking, brutish—”
“Kintus.” A sharp word from Pella stopped the tirade. Her steely gaze met Maddek’s. “In your opinion, Commander, are the defensive forces on the river sufficient to counter the savages’ attacks?”
“They are.”
If they hadn’t been, Maddek would have requested more forces before leaving.
Pella accepted his answer with a simple nod. “The agreement between our people states that each member of the alliance must be allowed the opportunity to settle their affairs and to establish new rule when internal disruptions of this nature occur. Following King Latan’s death last summer, the Rugusian commander left the Lave encampment early, as did most of the Rugusian soldiers. That ruling house is now settled. So Rugus can send additional reinforcements to the Lave until the Parsatheans have settled their affairs and their warriors return.”
A self-satisfied smirk curled Bazir’s mouth, his moonstone gaze smug as he regarded Maddek. “Rugus is under another obligation—providing guard to the Syssian court,” he said before looking to Pella. “The council approved the contract. Do you not recall? It was only done this past winter.”
“I recall the contract.” She frowned at Bazir before looking beyond him to his brother. “Can Rugus not spare a company of soldiers, Tyzen?”
Solemnly the boy shook his head. By all appearances he was at ease, yet his hands were curled into fists, his knuckles white. “Syssia’s regent has recently demanded that my king’s every available soldier be sent to his city.”
Bazir’s pale gaze flicked to Maddek again. “We believe the extra guard will be necessary.”
The heavy silence that fell across the ministers then felt like a burden of things undone. It weighed hard and sudden upon Maddek’s heart, and for a long breath, that great muscle seemed not to pound.
Then it began beating again, faster and hotter. He looked to Nayil.
“What felled our queen and king?” he asked, and his voice was quiet, but every Parsathean knew that quiet simply preceded the rage of a fire, the fury of a storm, the clash of a sword.
He saw the hardening of Nayil’s face, the rage already burning. But it was not the warrior who answered him.
Pella said, “Before we begin, Commander Maddek, you must understand that all has been satisfied by alliance law.”
“What has been satisfied?” Not he.
Eagerly Bazir leaned forward to tell him. “This winter past, your queen and king came to Syssia to discuss strengthening the alliance through your marriage to one of my kin. While there, your king assaulted a woman of the household, and was slain when my father defended her honor—”
Without haste, Maddek started for him.
Bazir scrambled back, bone chair clattering to the floor in his rush. His pale eyes finally darkened with fear—but the sight didn’t amuse Maddek as he’d thought it would. Instead he only saw red.
He did not reach for his sword. He left his silver claws tucked away.
With bare hands he would tear this liar’s head from his neck, rip out his sly tongue, and stuff it down the ragged blood-spurting hole of his throat.
The crescent table stood in his path. The ministers were already scattering—Gareth thrust the boy behind him as if to use his own body as a shield against Maddek’s wrath, and Pella grabbed Kintus’s arm as if to haul her away before the table was shoved aside. But Maddek simply leapt onto the carved surface, then over, his muscles coiled like steel springs, his gaze fixed on Bazir’s bloodbare face. The man’s pale eyes darted right and left, searching for escape.
Instead of escape came rescue in the form of Nayil’s wasted hand upon Maddek’s arm.
Nothing else in that tower could have made Maddek pause. Only out of the deepest respect did he halt.
And Nayil knew that halted was not stopped. “If you value your life, leave us!” he snapped at the cowering Bazir. As if Nayil was uncertain of the depth of Maddek’s rage, the warning in his gaze shifted to the brother. “Leave us, Tyzen.”
Maddek would not have touched the boy. Any fool could see that the youth had not shared Bazir’s smirking pleasure when his brother had spoken the foul lie. Instead he’d turned his face away, as if shamed.
Ashamed of his brother or ashamed of what their father had done, Maddek cared not. The boy would have neither brother nor father to be ashamed of much longer.
A murmur from Pella sent Gareth and Kintus from the chamber after the two brothers. With bloodrage in his eyes, Maddek’s gaze followed Bazir’s hasty retreat through the ivory doors. The sly-tongue’s escape now mattered not at all.
Maddek would find him again. He would rip that lying tongue from between Bazir’s smirking lips.
He could hardly believe that it hadn’t yet been done. With a throat scoured raw by grief and rage, he looked to Nayil. “You were friend to my queen and king. Tell me why he still lives. Tell me why Zhalen does. It could not be my absence that stayed your hand. You would not wait for me to avenge their deaths and to silence the lies that would stain their names.”
“There will be no vengeance,” Pella said, but Maddek’s gaze did not stray from Nayil’s face. “We could not prove any lie. Indeed, part of the story was corroborated by a minister on this council.”
“A minister?” An incredulous sneer twisted Maddek’s mouth. “Zhalen’s son?”
“By me.” The older man’s eyes were steady on his. “Your parents came to me and asked what I knew of the House of Nyset. They had received a message from a woman within the household that put forth the possibility of marriage to unite our people.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“To avoid Syssian royalty as they would avoid a nest of starving drepa. But your parents said they knew what Zhalen and his sons were, and went.”
“That is only corroboration that they journeyed to Syssia. Not that my father assaulted a woman.”
Pella shook her head. “The incident was also witnessed by the Rugusian guards—”
“And upon Rugus’s throne sits Zhalen’s murdering son, who has most reason to support his father’s lies! And you say this matter is satisfied? It is not satisfied.” Nor was it in Nayil’s opinion, Maddek saw from his face, yet the older man still held his arm. Still held him back. “What of my mother? Was she also murdered by these treacherous curs when my father was?”
For she would have fought to the death at his side—or to avenge him.
Renewed rage sparked in the older man’s gaze. “She was held as an assassin and interrogated for three turns of the moon before she tried to escape.”
Interrogated. Maddek could not speak.
“She killed Zhalen’s eldest son during her escape attempt,” Pella added solemnly. “Her sentence was the same as any who had been found guilty of assassinating a Syssian royal.”
“What sentence?” he asked hoarsely.
“Beheading.”
Maddek closed his eyes. His queen, his mother—bound and beheaded, forced to endure not a warrior’s honorable death but a criminal’s shameful punishment.
Not a single wall would be left standing in Syssia when Maddek was done. Not one.
His eyes opened. “I will have Zhalen’s head.” The man could hire every guard and mercenary from every realm west of Temra’s Ocean. It would not save him.
“You cannot seek vengeance for this,” Pella said firmly. “Disputes between alliance members must be settled by the council—”
“As my father and mother’s dispute with Zhalen was settled?”
“That was not a dispute between the realms. Theirs was a personal attack made against a member of the House of Nyset on Syssian soil. Zhalen had the right to administrate the laws of his city, just as you could enforce Parsathean law if he attempted to kill someone while in your territory.”