Shadows of Destiny Read online

  While Annuvil had simply waited for events to unfold.

  Well, Ardred thought, staring at the living husk of the Ilduin, events were certainly unfolding now. Rebellion in Bozandar—that must be quite a surprise to his brother, who had wanted the Anari to be peaceful to a fault—a legion marching toward Anahar to rescue its brothers, an emperor who was losing control of his empire though he did not yet know it, a people weakened by famine and harsh winter, all in turmoil….

  Now it was time to wake his hives. The stupid overmark he had hired to train his ragtag army had no idea what other tools lay at Ardred’s command. Nor did Ardred want him yet to know. If anyone looked, they would think Ardred weak, not worthy of concern.

  It was good. It was as it must be. For out of this turmoil, the worlds would be reforged.

  But far more important than that, the Weaver would be brought to heel. His heel. Only that, he knew, could avenge the way his brother had stolen Theriel those many years ago. White Lady for White Lady.

  When he at last spoke to the woman he had come to see, he actually smiled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Snow Wolves, form ranks!” Archer cried.

  His voice echoed off of the canyon walls, booming with an authority that made hearts quiver and muscles respond with trained precision. The host had returned to the site of the battle, the Anari along the eastern face of the canyon, the Bozandari to the west, facing one another with wary eyes. Between them lay the mass graves of those who had fallen.

  Ratha and Tuzza received the salutes of their men, then turned and marched toward each other, moving between the graves. Murmurs rippled through the ranks as the two men stopped two yards apart. Above, on the rim of the canyon, Tess watched with growing concern.

  “Surely they are not planning to duel?” she asked.

  “I do not know, my lady,” Archer said. “Ratha came to me, asking that the men be formed thus. I assumed that he and Tuzza had reached some accommodation.”

  Tess nodded, trying to force her eyes away from what was happening beneath her on the canyon floor, but she knew she could not. This had been her idea. Now she could do nothing but watch, and trust in the essential goodness of Ratha’s soul.

  Mihabi moved with three Anari through the quiet back gardens of Ezinha’s estate. Kelano, he knew, was moving around the other side with three more. Unless Ezinha had changed his household routine, his wife would have taken his children to the market, leaving Ezinha at home alone to work on his ledgers. The Anari would be in his home before he had an opportunity to react.

  If everything went well.

  Mihabi looked up, shielding his eyes. The sun was nearly overhead. Soon the bells would ring, calling those few Bozandari who still honored their gods to their midday prayer. That would be their signal to move.

  Mihabi was not happy being here. He had a promise, and whatever Ezinha might be, he would be true to his word. Mihabi would be nothing but a common thief in his former master’s eyes. That thought troubled him more than any other. He had seen anger in Ezinha’s face more than once. He had seen it the night he left Ezinha’s estate. But it had always been the anger of a brother. An anger that he had known would pass.

  This would be something else.

  In the distance, the bells pealed midday.

  Mihabi and the three Anari moved quickly and silently toward the kitchen door. As he stepped through the door, Mihabi froze.

  Ezinha was in the kitchen with Ialla.

  And he had a knife in his hand.

  Ratha studied the eyes of the man who had killed his brother. The brother who had not only killed but had also mutilated Tuzza’s cousin. It had been a calculated act of brutality that Ratha could not imagine Giri ordering, and yet he had. Giri’s soul had grown much darker than Ratha had believed. Whatever pain Ratha had felt as he watched Giri fall, Tuzza’s anger had been all the greater. Ratha considered how difficult his path to this point had been.

  Ratha wondered if Tuzza was capable of the task that now lay before them. He was not certain that he could do it himself. And Giri had not been mutilated.

  Ratha placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, watching as Tuzza grasped his own. As they drew their weapons, a gasp passed through the watching men.

  But Ratha did not hear it. He could hear only the pounding in his own chest.

  “I warned you, Mihabi,” Ezinha said. “Had you come alone, perhaps I could have forgotten our last words. But to come like this, armed, and with your brethren. You are no more than a common thief.”

  “We come for my mother,” Mihabi said. “You know what has happened in other households.”

  “And you think I would harm the woman who nursed me when I was a babe, and loved me ever after?” Ezinha asked.

  “Why would you not?” Kelano asked, having crept through the house and who now appeared in the doorway behind Ezinha. “You sold me to a man who has done thus.”

  Ezinha nodded and looked down. The sight of the brother he had sold, the scars of the cruelty that this brother had borne, sickened and shamed him to his very soul. “I did, Kelano. I was a fool, though the cruelty you felt is no less for that. I was wrong. No one could judge you for wanting to strike me down. But look at your mother’s arm before you do.”

  Mihabi saw the wound first, a wound that matched his own. Ezinha had freed her. And yet she remained here, in Ezinha’s house.

  “Mother…” Mihabi began.

  “This is my home,” she said.

  “You are a fool,” Kelano said, bitter anger in his voice. “Why would you remain with the man who sold your own son?”

  “Because he is also my son,” Ialla said firmly. “You are all my sons, and yet you stand here with daggers drawn. A mother can feel no worse pain than that.”

  “We are your blood,” Kelano said.

  “And my blood has been spilled,” Ialla said, pointing to the scars on Kelano’s body. She took the knife from Ezinha’s hand and held it to her wrist. “Will a greater pool of my blood make old wounds heal? If so, then let me shed it.”

  “Mother, no!” Mihabi shouted. “You have done no wrong!”

  “Have I not?” she asked. “I raised Ezinha, and more than once did I scold him when he erred. But never did I scold him on the greatest error of all. I spoke not of the evil of one man owning another. I spoke not of the anger that simmers when men are property. I warned him not of the danger that some day—this day—a vile crime that he thought normal would rise up and smite him. How can you say I have done no wrong, when I did not teach my child that most important truth?”

  Ezinha heard her words as if through a cheesecloth soaked with bile and guilt and sorrow. “You could not have spoken thus. My father would have beaten you, or worse.”

  “Aye, he would have,” she said, tears rising in her eyes. “And fearing that, I said nothing while my own son was taken away to the auction house like a pig to the market. To spare my own pain, I let one son hurt another. What kind of mother does thus?”

  “A human mother,” Mihabi said, his knife lowered, his voice gentle. “A mother as flawed as her sons, yet no less loving for her flaws.”

  Ezinha gently took the knife from Ialla’s hand and placed it on the table. “Mother, spill no more blood on this day. Nor will I.”

  He looked at Kelano. “As to whether you will spill my blood, Kelano, I cannot decide that for you. I pray that you will not, for I believe I can help your people in their time of need. But that is a choice you must make.”

  “How could you help us?” Kelano asked, his own dagger still clutched tightly.

  Ezinha spread his hands. “You brought armed men into my house. Have I called for the city guard?”

  “You have had no chance,” Kelano said, eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, yes, my son,” Ialla said. “He did. Did you think your mother a fool? I had heard of the reprisals against the families of Anari who joined the rebellion. I knew you would fear Ezinha’s vengeance. I told him you would come for
me. We watched through the window as you stole onto his estate and waited in his gardens. He knew. I knew. He could have called for the city guard. He chose not to.”

  “But why?” Mihabi asked.

  “Wherever you are hiding,” Ezinha said, “the Bozandari will find you. Even now, a legion marches from the north toward the city, to crush your brethren here. They may not arrive for days or perhaps even a fortnight, but what of the people in the city who have taken to the streets with swords and bells to summon the guard? How long until they track one of your parties back to your base, and fall upon you with red in their eyes and black in their hearts?”

  Ezinha paused to let the question sink in before continuing. “You need sanctuary, and I have both a walled estate and good standing in the community. Neither guard nor mob will assail this place.”

  Ezinha walked over to Kelano and stood before him, his arms at his sides, his hands open. “Shed my blood if you will, Kelano, but waste not the blood of your people. This was once your home. Let it be so again.”

  “And how do I know that you are not merely drawing my brethren in so that they may be slaughtered?” Kelano asked.

  “Because he swore to me,” Ialla said. “He swore to me on pain of keh-bal. And I will hold him to his oath.”

  Tuzza’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword and hesitated there. He knew what must be done, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to make the first movement. The laughing face of his young cousin floated before his eyes, then dissolved into the mutilated corpse he had last seen.

  The man before him was the brother of his cousin’s killer. In keeping with customs of ahwesa, Ratha’s life should be forfeit for his brother’s deed. Not the slaying in battle. That was battle. The mutilation was not, and for that a penalty should be paid.

  But this was not a time for ancient customs and honor claims, he reminded himself. He could, with a mere swing of his sword, exact his family’s due. It would be so easy that his heart rebelled at his refusal to do so.

  Yet…not only was he aware of his army ranged behind him, but also he could read the face of the Anari facing him. Ratha found this no easier than he, yet Ratha had been the one to come to him and suggest this, that they end not only their own bad blood, but the bad blood between the armies.

  A greater threat awaited them, one they could not afford to ignore, and certainly not for a few moments of satisfaction.

  From behind him he could feel the pressure of anticipation, and he spoke quietly to Ratha. “They think we are about to fight to the death.”

  “Aye.” Ratha’s voice was heavy. “And it is that specter that we must end. I understand your reluctance, Tuzza, for I feel it as well. But for how long can we stand here and postpone our duty?”

  “Are you eager?”

  Ratha looked down at the ground. “Nay,” he said. “I still grieve. But not only for my brother’s death.”

  “No?”

  Ratha looked at him. “My brother was as close to me as if we had emerged from the womb at the same time. He was my other arm, my other half. He is gone. It is where he is gone that I fear.”

  Tuzza felt his brow crease. “What do you say?”

  “I saw that my brother was caught up in the lust of battle. I knew what he did to your cousin. My cousin Cilla swears that in his last moments, Giri recognized the wrong in what he did, that in the last moments of his life he regretted his errors.”

  Tuzza nodded, careful to keep his expression neutral.

  “But, Tuzza,” Ratha continued, clearly finding it difficult to speak of something so personal, “I have a fear.”

  “Fear?”

  “What if Cilla is wrong? What if he did not have time to repent? What if, instead of crossing the veil, he wanders this world as a dark shade, forever barred from comfort and rest?”

  The muscles in Tuzza’s neck jerked, and he felt something chilly run along his spine. “Those who die in battle are guaranteed to cross the veil, for they have died bravely and in service.”

  Ratha shook his head. “Those are your beliefs. Ours are different. I cannot say who is correct. But I do know one thing. There is a difference between fighting for a cause out of necessity, and fighting because one gains a personal satisfaction from it. Giri began to thirst after blood. That was his sin. Did he repent it? I pray so, else he will never cross the veil, and I shall never see him again.”

  “Then let me offer you some measure of comfort,” Tuzza said. “You have no reason to trust me in this, and many reasons to think me a liar. But listen, I pray you. Your brother’s mission was not an easy one. He could not risk open battle with my legion, nor was that his task. And so he was reduced to pinpricks, drawing me along the path you had chosen, watching his men die, and exacting what revenge he could.

  “A war such as that can produce no heroes, Ratha. It is too cold and too cruel. It produces cold, cruel men. The gods will know this when they meet your brother. They will look at how close you and Giri were. They will look at him. Then they will look at you. They will see that the differences in your hearts lay in the different battles you were forced to fight.

  “And they will forgive him,” Tuzza concluded.

  “It would be blessed if that were true,” Ratha said.

  Tuzza nodded. “My people have a saying. The gods are gentle when the devils are cruel, and the gods are cruel when the devils are gentle. The devils were cruel indeed to your brother, Ratha. The gods will be gentle.”

  Ratha looked down for a moment, blinking away tears. “Many have spoken to me of Giri’s life and his death. My friends. My kin. Even my beloved cousin. None of them spoke as you speak, Tuzza. And only in your words have I found the truth that reaches my heart.”

  Tuzza extended his free arm and grasped Ratha’s shoulder. “One warrior to another, my friend.”

  Ratha shook his head. “No, my friend. One man to another. Men who long for an end to war.”

  “Yes,” Tuzza said. “One man to another. Let us make peace, Ratha.”

  “Let us make peace,” Ratha echoed.

  They sheathed their swords and knelt to pick up two shovels Ratha had laid in this spot during the night. Wordlessly, for there was no need of words, they dug in the freshly turned earth. When they had dug a hole almost half the height of a man, they put the shovels aside and drew again their swords.

  They brought the blades to their foreheads in a salute as old as time.

  Then they tossed their swords into the hole.

  Neither heard the gasps or the cheers that spread through their men. Neither heard Tess’s quiet tears, high up on the rim of the valley, nor Archer’s oath of wonder. It was as if a veil of silence had descended around them.

  They heard the muted chunk of spade digging into earth, and the thud as that earth landed in the hole. They heard each other’s quick caught breaths. Later, each would swear he could hear the other’s tears wetting the soil.

  In a final gesture, each snapped the handle of his spade over his knee. Their swords were buried, never to be unearthed.

  Tuzza considered whether to embrace Ratha, and finally decided upon a crisp, formal salute. Ratha returned it. Each spoke only one more word.

  “Brother.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Uneasiness everywhere,” Ardred told Overmark Lutte. “The crone sees all, and it is well.”

  “Well?” Lutte looked at his new liege and pondered the word. “Well would be victory. Uneasiness is naught.”

  Ardred smiled, superiority in every line of his face.

  “You doubt me, Lutte.”

  The overmark felt a distinct chill run down his back. He still had not taken the full measure of his new emperor, and he often had the feeling that the man had powers no Bozandari emperor had ever claimed. “I merely do not understand,” Lutte replied.

  “Nor would you.” Ardred’s smile broadened. “My plan proceeds. The capital of Bozandar is in the grip of a slave revolt that is spreading to outlying areas. They are thus we
akened. The only threat marching their way is a small band of survivors of the battle between the Anari and Tuzza’s legion. They will be crushed when Alezzi’s legion meets them.”

  Lutte stiffened. “Alezzi is cousin to Tuzza.”

  “Do you think that will make a difference when Alezzi learns Tuzza has thrown his lot in with the Anari?”

  Lutte knew enough of Bozandari officers to answer quickly. “No.”

  “Exactly. And most likely Tuzza will seize the opportunity to rejoin Bozandar regardless of whatever promises he may have made. So either way, that annoying little group will be eliminated. Then we will move.”

  Lutte thought of his own army coming up against a Bozandari legion, and he didn’t like the assessment he reached. “We are not ready, my lord.”

  “You are ready enough, Lutte. Do you think I count only on you?”

  That stung a bit, but Lutte managed to conceal his response by bowing his head. Yes, he supposed he had considered himself essential. Or at the very least he had wanted to think so. Why had he thought it should be any different here than it had been in Bozandar? He quelled the disappointment and annoyance he felt.

  Ardred hummed for a moment, an unfamiliar tune, and rocked back on his heels, while clasping his hands together behind his back.

  “They are doing exactly as I want, Lutte. Soon my brother will pay the price of his transgressions.”

  Ezinha’s house had filled steadily over the past few days. His wife and children had gone to visit his wife’s family in the country some thirty leagues away and were not expected to return until he sent for them. He had wanted his children to be away from the capital city at this time, to be at her father’s large country estate where a private militia would be able to protect all of them.

  But never had he imagined the threat would venture this close to his own door. Or that he would be risking his life—and ultimately those of his sons—by protecting rebels. And yet, he could not escape the justice of it. He had been blind to too much that he should have seen, and now he would pay the price. In the balances of eternal justice, he suspected that he owed a very heavy price indeed.