Part 4 (1/2)

A lavender glow had appeared above the painted mountains on the eastern wall of Hamanu's cloister. The quiet of night gave way to the barked commands of the day-watch officers taking their posts along the city's walls. Another Urik morning had begun. Setting his stylus aside, Urik's king ma.s.saged his cramped fingers. Bold, black characters marched precisely across several sheets of pearly vellum. Several more lay scrunched and scattered through the neglected garden. Two sheets remained untouched.

”I'll need more vellum,” Hamanu mused, ”and more time.”

CHAPTER FOUR.

The heat of day had come again to Urik. Here and there, insect swarms raised raucous chorus. All other creatures, if they had the wit and freedom, sought shelter from the sun's brutal strength. Throughout Hamanu's domain, the din of commerce faded, and labor's pace slowed to a snore. Mindless mirage sprites danced across the burning pavement of the city's deserted market squares, while merchants of every variety dozed in the oppressive shade of their stalls.

Beyond the city walls, in the green fields and villages, workers set aside tools and napped beside their beasts. Farther away, in the gaping complex of mountain pits that was the Urikite obsidian mines, overseers drank cool, fruited tea beneath leather awnings and the wretched ma.s.s of slaves received a few hours' rest and unrestricted access to the water barrels.

No great mercy there, the king reminded himself as he, like the distant slaves, sipped water from a wooden ladle in the shadows of the peasant cloister, deep within his palace. While he'd lived, Borys, the Dragon of Tyr, had levied a thousand lives each year from each champion to maintain the spells around Rajaat's prison. The obsidian mines required even more lives-too many more lives-to keep Urik secure.

Letting slaves rest each afternoon insured that they'd live to hack at the black veins for a few more days. The life span of a mine slave was rarely more than two seventy-five-day quinths of the three-hundred-seventy-five-day Athasian year. An obsidian sword didn't last much longer, chipping and flaking into uselessness. Maintaining the balance between able-bodied slaves and the baskets of sharp-edged ore Urik's defense required was one task Hamanu refused to delegate to his templars. It was his his age-old decree that gave the wretches their daily rest and the threat of age-old decree that gave the wretches their daily rest and the threat of his his intervention that kept the templar overseers obediently under their awning. intervention that kept the templar overseers obediently under their awning.

It certainly wasn't mercy.

Mercy was standing here, concealing his presence from Pavek, who'd fallen asleep in the shade of one of the dead fruit-trees. Waking the scar-faced man would have been as easy as breathing out, but Hamanu resisted the temptation that was, truly, no temptation at all. He could experience a mortal's abject terror anytime; the sweet-dreaming sleep of an exhausted man was precious and tare.

As soon as he'd returned to the city yesterday afternoon, Enver had sent a messenger to the palace, begging a full day's recovery before he resumed his duties. Faithful Pavek, however, had visited his Urik house only long enough to bathe and change his travel-stained clothes. He appeared at the palace gates as the sun was setting and pa.s.sed a good part of the moonlit night reading the vellum sheets still spread across the worktable.

Pavek was a clever man; he'd had no difficulty reading Hamanu's narrative or understanding its implications, but, mostly, Pavek was an upright man who radiated his emotions as fire shed heat. This morning, he'd radiated an intense unwillingness to talk about what he'd read. Hamanu had honored that reluctance in his own way, by putting the novice druid to work in his lifeless garden.

Naked tree stumps and neatly tied bales of twigs and straw testified to Pavek's diligent labor-at least until exhaustion had claimed him. He sprawled across the fresh-cleared dirt, legs crooked and one arm tucked under his cheek, as careless as a child. Images, not unlike the heat mirages above the market squares, s.h.i.+mmered above Pavek's gently moving ribs, though unlike a true mirage, which any mortal could observe, only Hamanu could see the wispy substance of the templar's dreams.

They were a simple man's dreams: the shapes of Pavek's loved ones as they lived within him. There was a woman at his dream's s.h.i.+mmering center; Hamanu's human lips curved into an appreciative smile. She was blond and beautiful and, having met her one momentous night in Quraite, the Lion of Urik knew his ugly templar didn't embellish her features. Hamanu didn't know her name; there weren't enough mortal names to label all the faces in thirteen ages of memory. He recalled her by the texture of her spirit and through the uncompromising honesty of Pavek's dream.

The blond druid had fallen afoul of Hamanu's one-time favorite, Elabon Escrissar, during the zarneeka crisis that had first brought Pavek to Hamanu's attention. Scars of abuse, disgrace, and torment entwined beneath her loveliness. She'd healed somewhat in the years since Hamanu had last seen her, but she'd heal more if she'd accept the love, as well as the friends.h.i.+p, his high templar offered her. She might, in time; women often grew wise in the ways of mortal hearts, and she'd been raised by the archdruid, Telhami, who was among the wisest of women.

Or, she might not. Bitter scars might offer more consistency and security than any man's love.

Regarding mortal frailty and apologies, Hamanu had seen almost everything in his life; very little surprised anymore-or intrigued him. Enver's father, who'd lived two hundred fifty-six years, had begun to see the world with immortal detachment shortly before he died. Pavek, though, was a young man, and the woman he loved was younger still. Men and women lived longer and in greater variety than flowers, but Hamanu had seen how fast they withered-especially when he embraced them.

He gestured subtly with an index finger. Pavek sighed, and the woman's dream images collapsed into one another, then reformed. There was a boy above Pavek's shoulder, a st.u.r.dy black-haired boy who smiled too easily to have been raised in a templar orphanage, as Pavek had been. In the quirky way of memory, Hamanu remembered learning the boy's name, Zvain, in another part of this palace a little more than two years ago. He recalled the name because it was uncommon in Urik and because the taste of the boy's shame and misery had been as honey on his immortal tongue.

Zvain was another mortal who'd been scarred by Escrissar and by Telhami, too. He was an orphan through no fault of his own and a survivor because when he'd needed a hand, the hand he'd seized was Pavek's.

It was almost enough to make one of Rajaat's champions believe in justice and higher powers.

But for every Zvain who triumphed over his destiny, there were ten copper-hued Ruaris hovering behind him. The youthful half-elf of Pavek's dream was handsome, proud... brittle, and oh-so-appetizing oh-so-appetizing to a jaded king who craved the pa.s.sions of his subjects. Just as well that Pavek had left his unforgettably vulnerable friend behind in Quraite. Even in another man's dream, Ruari's dark needs cried out, and copper eyes flashed green as the distant spirit responded to a champion's hunger-Then vanished with a yawn as Pavek levered himself up on his elbows. to a jaded king who craved the pa.s.sions of his subjects. Just as well that Pavek had left his unforgettably vulnerable friend behind in Quraite. Even in another man's dream, Ruari's dark needs cried out, and copper eyes flashed green as the distant spirit responded to a champion's hunger-Then vanished with a yawn as Pavek levered himself up on his elbows.

”Great One!” the bleary-eyed templar muttered. Confusion reigned in his thoughts. He didn't know if he should stand and bow or remain where he was with his face pressed against the dirt.

”I disturbed your dreams,” Hamanu admitted.

Pavek's eyes widened; he made his decision. His head dropped like a stone, and he prostrated himself in the dirt.

”Great One, I don't remember-”

Which was a lie; honest men told lies to protect the truth.

Pavek didn't want to remember his dream, but Ruari's face floated on the surface of his thoughts and would not sink-could not sink-until Hamanu released it, whereupon the burly human s.h.i.+vered despite the oppressive heat. not sink-until Hamanu released it, whereupon the burly human s.h.i.+vered despite the oppressive heat.

”When I asked you to set my garden in order,” Hamanu began mildly, ”I expected you to demonstrate your mastery of druid spellcraft. I didn't expect you to work yourself to exhaustion digging in the dirt with hand tools.”

Hamanu told a lie of his own to balance Pavek's. He knew there was no magic save his own in Urik's palace and that his his magic had doomed this cloister. He'd hoped, of course, that Pavek might waken his guardian to infuse this barren soil with new vigor, but, in truth, Hamanu would have been disappointed if Pavek had obeyed him with any force more potent than sweat or brawn. magic had doomed this cloister. He'd hoped, of course, that Pavek might waken his guardian to infuse this barren soil with new vigor, but, in truth, Hamanu would have been disappointed if Pavek had obeyed him with any force more potent than sweat or brawn.

”If you wanted an overnight forest, Great One, you should have summoned someone else.” As always, Pavek's stubborn honesty won out over the combined might of his fear and good sense.

”Another druid?” Hamanu asked; teasing mortals-tormenting them-was low treatment of those with no means to oppose him, but it did stave off his more dire cravings. ”Your friends, perhaps? Ruari? That blond woman who means so much to you-as you mean so little to her? Tell me her name, Pavek; I've forgotten.”

”Akas.h.i.+a, Great One,” Pavek admitted softly; a templar could not disobey his king's direct command. The man's shoulders shook as he pushed himself to his knees. ”She'd sooner die than serve you, Great One, but even if you compelled her to come, she could do no more than what I've done. Nothing will grow here. The soil has been scorched.”

And what, a champion might ask, had brought that particular word to Pavek's mind? ”Do I compel you, Pavek?” Hamanu asked instead, less benignly than before.

”I don't know, Great One. To hear your voice, Great One--To feel you in my mind-” His chin sagged again.

”Do you feel feel compelled? Did you feel compelled when Enver brought you a plain ink message written on plainer vellum?” compelled? Did you feel compelled when Enver brought you a plain ink message written on plainer vellum?”

”You know where Quraite is, Great One. They have no protection from your wrath, should you choose to punish them. How could I refuse?”

Pavek spoke to the dirt. His eyes were closed. He expected to die in a thousand horrible ways, but nothing would keep him from telling the truth as he understood it. And yet, irony of ironies, of all those living under Athas's b.l.o.o.d.y sun, Pavek was among the very few who had nothing to fear from the Lion-King. He didn't need to fear for his precious Quraite; Telhami Telhami had secured the enclave's perpetual security long before Pavek's grandparents were born. had secured the enclave's perpetual security long before Pavek's grandparents were born.

”I grant you the right to refuse to serve me, Pavek. Even now, I grant you that. Walk through that door. Leave, and know in your heart that I will never follow you. The decision is yours,” Hamanu said, and within his illusion of human flesh and saffron-dyed linen, what remained of his own mortal heart beat faster.

Hamanu inhaled his Unseen influence: his power to bend a man's thoughts according to his own desire. The world grew quiet and dulled as his senses shrank to mortal dimensions. He truly didn't know what Pavek would choose to do. When Telhami left, he'd had the fort.i.tude to keep his word; others hadn't been so lucky. Hamanu didn't know what he would do after Pavek made his choice. The stakes were high, but even after thirteen ages of dominion over his city, the thought that one puny mortal might deny him was acid goad between his ribs.

Pavek grasped a shovel's handle and used it to rise. ”I've been a templar too long,” he said as he thrust the shovel into the ground. Leaving it upright in the dirt, Pavek touched a golden chain barely visible beneath his s.h.i.+rt's neck. ”Tell me to come, and I'll come. Tell me to leave, and I'll go. Ask me to choose, and I'll stay where I am because I am what I am.”

Hamanu exhaled and resumed command of the world around him. Through the golden medallion hung on the golden chain Pavek wound between his fingers, Hamanu felt his templar's heart, the vibrations of his thoughts. Honesty had again prevailed.

Peering into himself, Hamanu found a mora.s.s of questions he couldn't hope to answer. Had he expected anything else? Would he have allowed Pavek his freedom if there'd been any risk that the habits of a lifetime were less strong than a champion's power to compel? He was was the last of Rajaat's champions, and his powers had become habits, as deeply ingrained as any templar's. Ages ago, the landscape of his own tortured psyche had fascinated him, but after a thousand years, introspection had lost its allure. He, too, was what he was. the last of Rajaat's champions, and his powers had become habits, as deeply ingrained as any templar's. Ages ago, the landscape of his own tortured psyche had fascinated him, but after a thousand years, introspection had lost its allure. He, too, was what he was.

His eyes met Pavek's. Despite the fear, distrust, and habit that permeated the templar's being, he didn't flinch. Perhaps that was all a champion could hope for: a man who could return his stare.

A stare would have to be sufficient for the moment. Pavek wasn't the only templar with a hold over Hamanu's attention. Someone else had wrapped a hand around a medallion. With lightning quickness, Hamaau identified the medallion's steel and gemstones and the confident hand that held it.

Commandant Javed.

A spark of recognition flowed through the netherworld to the war-bureau templar. When it bridged the gap to Javed's medallion, the two were joined in Hamanu's thoughts. He'd sent Windreaver off in search of the Shadow-King-the disembodied troll would learn things no mortal could-but he'd sent his own champion to spy on the Shadow-King's army. He wasn't surprised that the commandant was returning to Urik first.

Recount! he demanded, because it was easier to listen than to rummage blindly through chaotic thoughts. he demanded, because it was easier to listen than to rummage blindly through chaotic thoughts. Where is this host that the Shadow-King marches across our purview? Where is this host that the Shadow-King marches across our purview?

Gone to shadows, like their king, Great One, as soon as they saw our dust on the horizon, Javed recounted. Javed recounted. The women and their mercenaries fled rather than face us. The women and their mercenaries fled rather than face us.

Hamanu scowled. For ages, he and Gallard, Bane of Gnomes, had skirmished on the barren borders of their domains, tempering their troops and probing for a decisive advantage. Never before had the Nibenese fled the field. He raked the surface of the elf's mind, gathering up images of an abandoned camp: cooling hearths, empty trenches, empty kank pens.

But not one thing of value, Hamanu mused for his commandant's benefit. Hamanu mused for his commandant's benefit. Not one overturned cook pot or bale of forage. They'd planned that withdrawal from the beginning. Not one overturned cook pot or bale of forage. They'd planned that withdrawal from the beginning.