Chapter 9:
Bloodlines
I
Back in Ostra, Julivar’s father had forbidden her seaside visits and even Izivar had cautioned her to stay clear of the wharves unless she travelled with bodyguards. But here, in Selanto, she could watch the new ships growing in their dry docks every single day, beautiful, long, deep-hulled vessels designed for the outer ocean. She could talk to the sails master and the foreman and even help out with the carpentry if she wanted. It was a dream.
The little port bustled with far more energy than she would ever have guessed. It wasn’t just the ships, but docks and warehouses and apartments. Antires had told her there’d been nothing on this land only a few months before, and that it had all gone up with incredible speed.
She still wasn’t entirely sure about the reasons behind the move, or the construction, but Izivar had confided a handful of secrets to her and had finally admitted that some of the Volani hidden among them were escaped slaves. Not only would they be in jeopardy if found, so too would everyone giving them shelter.
Julivar heard how badly some of them had been treated, and she pledged her heart to the cause with the zeal of a religious convert. She had also decided that she would have to watch out for her sister, who seemed too enmeshed in the day-to-day struggles of management to truly be cognizant of dangers.
And so Julivar had sneaked through the kitchen cabinet and into the hidden observation cubicle, banging her knee in the process. She hadn’t liked the look of the visitor Izivar had agreed to meet privately. He’d been short and powerfully built, with an evil mouth and pointed eyebrows. He didn’t seem like a man who laughed much.
Now, as she pressed her ear to the wall, he was bluntly speaking to Izivar about his aims.
“...know you have a small enclave here that can’t possibly bear the emperor any love,” he said. Sometimes Julivar had to press in close to hear the speakers, but she had no trouble overhearing him, for his voice was loud. “And yet somehow you have the protection of the emperor’s heir.”
Izivar’s voice was clearer still, for she sat closer to the panel behind which Julivar hid. Her sister sounded coolly polite, calm, and masterful. Sometimes Julivar wished she could speak with such measured grace. “We’ve been quite fortunate,” Izivar said. “And blessed in our friends. We seek no enemies.”
“But what if the enemies seek you?” the man pressed. He seemed as though he were in a terrible hurry.
“No enemy is seeking us now,” Izivar countered reasonably.
“You pretend to be foolish and I know that you are not. With a snap of his fingers the emperor might decide that you all are done for. That he has no use for you, or your people. What would you do then?”
He was right. Julivar liked Enarius, but the emperor had sent his legions to destroy Volanus. And if a big city like Volanus couldn’t withstand him, these buildings would fall in an instant.
Izivar’s voice had grown cool. “You said you wished to discuss a business venture. This strikes me instead as talk of treason.”
“Treason,” the man said, his voice speculative. “Against whom? Treason can only be against a government that is your own.”
“The treason of one ally against another.”
“I will be blunt.”
“You have hardly been subtle so far.”
“We of Cerdia mean to stop the Dervans before they finish us. Just as your Hanuvar attempted, but without such wasteful expenditure of men and material. We need only a little help.”
“You will not have it from me.” Julivar heard the sound of chair legs scraping across tile and imagined her sister standing. She couldn’t believe she was so dismissive of a potential ally, especially one that sounded so dangerous. “Leave. Do not darken my doorway again.”
“You are either an ally, or an enemy,” the man said with a warning tone.
“In this, I am your enemy. And I can act against you if I must.”
Julivar gulped, afraid for her sister. This listening post didn’t have a door, and it would be a long way around to reach Izivar’s office.
“You will regret this,” the fellow promised.
“I doubt that very much.”
Julivar risked sliding the little eye panel aside for a look. But the Cerdian had already turned and stomped toward the door. He slammed it closed behind him. She clambered from her listening post and ran at full speed for her sister’s office.
Izivar left off massaging her forehead and looked up at the sound of the door reopening. The dust mote laden sunbeams streaming in from the high window behind illuminated Izivar’s desk but hid the woman in shadow.
Julivar closed the portal behind her and addressed her sister in a loud whisper.
“Why didn’t you hear him out?”
“You thought he was a man to trust?” Izivar asked in disbelief.
Julivar smote her heart, as she had seen an actor do before he declared his undying love. “The emperor killed our people. Our blood cries for vengeance.”
“And our blood would flow if we joined that man,” Izivar said. “A wise leader thinks more about her people than herself. You would have me throw all our lives away to see one old man dead.”
“Maybe.” Julivar was no longer as certain as she’d been a moment before, then, hating the sound of vacillation in her voice she straightened so she looked more confident. “A leader must be decisive.”
“And a leader must choose her allies. That man was so obvious he’s either going to get everyone working with him caught and killed, or he’s some agent of the empire trying to root out traitors. You were listening, weren’t you? Did you like the way he sounded, or the volume of his speech? Did he seem like a careful planner?”
“...no,” Julivar admitted.
“I’m glad you see that.”
Worried now about her lack of understanding, Julivar spoke quietly. “You really think he might have been a spy for the emperor?”
“I don’t know. But we must remain wary. People will try to take advantage of us. To use our connection with Enarius. If we lose sight of our mission and focus on revenge, we will only end up getting our people killed. We have to protect those who are left. Don’t let anyone get you talking about plots or plans or revenge. Do you understand?”
“It doesn’t seem right,” Julivar said.
“It isn’t,” Izivar agreed. “Life isn’t fair. But it’s been much easier for you and me than it’s been for others. We’ve been lucky. And because the gods have blessed us with fortune, we will use it to help those around us.”
Izivar had shared that particular axiom a thousand times. Adults ended up repeating some of their stock phrases so much she had sworn to herself that when she got older she’d only say things once.
There were footsteps outside and then a knock upon the door.
“Lady Izivar,” said Antires. “The ship has returned.”
Julivar didn’t ask which ship; her sister had asked to be informed the moment the Lion reached port. It had left yesterday at dawn, and Izivar had asked after it several times already.
She saw Izivar’s eyebrows twitch at the news and a nervous alertness possessed her face. She looked expectant and pleased, but troubled at the same time.
“What’s wrong?” Julivar asked.
“Hopefully nothing.” Izivar pitched her voice louder. “Thank you, Antires. We’ll come right out. Is our friend well?”
While Izivar sounded completely calm her expression remained tense. Her sister liked the mystery man central to all of their efforts more than she let on. Everyone referred to him as Decius, but he spoke Volani like a native. Izivar had warned her to keep any observations about him to herself.
“He’s fine,” Antires answered, the sound of a smile in his voice. “I saw him moving around on deck.”
Izivar pushed out from the desk. “We’re clear, aren’t we?” she asked Julivar. She started for the door.
“Everything’s clear.” Julivar followed her sister through the doorway and down the hall.
Antires had waited for them and fell in step beside Izivar. He was very handsome, with dark creamy skin and a dazzling smile. He wasn’t as muscular as the men Julivar usually admired, but he was well-spoken and always stylish, even when in casual clothes, and he told wonderful stories. Today he wore brown sandals and an off-white tunic with red, lined sleeves, tied at the waist by a twisted brown leather belt featuring a Ceori hound-faced buckle.
As they exited the building and moved toward the docks, she shielded her eyes from the sun. It hung low on the horizon, throwing a brilliant white path across the ocean.
Off on her right, just up from the shore, stood the wide warehouse where the ships were being built.
She spied one of the omnipresent watchers on a distant rooftop platform. A squadron of sentinels kept watch for any unwanted visitors. Word had been allowed to leak that the Lenereva family had invested in an innovative shipping venture to explain away the security of their outpost south of the village and the large number of Volani in residence. Even if many of those here in the complex had no knowledge of ship building or involvement in the vessels’ construction, the Dervans widely believed cultural stereotypes, like all Volani possessing an inborn love of the sea and knowledge of ships.
Her sister and Antires paid no attention to the gorgeous natural environment around them, looking at neither the sheltered hilly cove and the calm blue sea in its arms nor the deep green of the encircling pines and spruce. They had eyes only for the sleek, high-prowed vessel at the dock. A band of sailors unloaded crates large as coffins with such incredible care they must have contained priceless statues or very tender fruit. Other sailors were already dangling from ropes alongside the hull and painting the ship’s trim a bright green, while still others touched up the ship’s eyes, lengthening them and making them blue rather than brown. The flag, too, had come down.
Himli, Izivar’s scarred foreman, was supervising the cargo transfer, gruffly cursing the men to carry their burdens even more carefully than they already were.
Izivar stopped at the bottom of the dock where Decius oversaw the unloading himself. He had seen her and Antires approach but was so busy with orders about the ship he didn’t greet them until they were at his side.
Antires looked joyful enough to embrace him—just like a Herrene, or a puppy—but Decius simply nodded. When he’d first appeared in Izivar’s life, the same day that horrible little man had killed their father, Decius had looked young and interesting. He appeared to have aged a lot in the last few months, either because of worry or lack of sleep.
“Was the venture a success?” Izivar asked. Though her sister was clearly troubled, she asked about her worries in a way that struck Julivar as rather bloodless, and she wondered if she meant more than what the words said.
“The journey was a success.” Decius’ answer was flat, and his eyes slid over to Julivar before he returned his attention to Izivar. “The cargo’s substantially smaller than I had been led to believe.”
“Oh.” Izivar’s expression fell. She looked as though she wanted to know more, but her eyes shifted to Julivar.
“What?” Julivar asked. “What are you talking about?”
When her sister’s lips parted, Julivar expected she was going to be told to move along as though she were a little girl, but Izivar’s mouth clamped shut at the sound of running footsteps Everyone turned to their source.
Panting, one of the watchmen came to a halt in front of them. He passed a scroll case to Izivar. “A legion messenger just delivered this,” he said, winded but not fully out of breath. He added, “It has the emperor’s seal.”
Izivar blankly accepted the thing, then traded a concerned glance with Decius before prying off the cap. She shook out the scroll, then studied the unbroken wax upon it as she handed him the case. Julivar tried to crowd close, because she’d never seen the emperor’s seal before, but Izivar broke it and unrolled the paper.
Julivar watched her sister’s eyes rove over the document and then saw her brows arch. Her sister tilted it toward Decius, and Antires read over his shoulder.
“The emperor’s on his way,” Izivar summarized. “He’ll be here by early evening. He’s coming for an unofficial visit and writes we shouldn’t worry about any pomp or special consideration.”
“He can’t possibly have heard about . . . the venture, can he?” Antires asked.
“No,” Decius said. “If that’s what this was about, he wouldn’t be coming himself.”
“You need to get out of here.” Izivar’s gaze shifted to the last of the crates, still carefully being carried off, then swept over the changes being painted upon the ship. “And this needs to be finished, fast.” She called to her foreman. “Himli!”
Antires turned to Decius. “She can handle all of this. We need to get you hidden.”
As Izivar launched a series of orders, Julivar followed Decius and the Herrene, running to catch up as they reached the end of the dock and started for the residential buildings.
“What’s in all of those boxes?” she asked him. “Are those weapons?”
Decius answered with incredible calm. “No, not at all.”
She kept with them as the two men arrived at one of the three cottages near the office. When Antires opened the door and entered the atrium the smell of fresh paint was still strong.
Antires put a thumb over his shoulder toward her as they advanced through the atrium. “Should she be here?”
“It’s fine,” Decius answered.
They arrived at a plain brown room with a bed and a table set with pitcher and bowl. A mirror hung above it and a door opened onto a little courtyard. Decius poured water into the bowl.
Julivar couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Why is Izivar so worried about the emperor seeing you?”
“Shaving first?” the Herrene asked.
“Yes,” Decius answered.
“Why do you need to do any of that?” Julivar asked. “Izivar doesn’t want you seen at all.”
“Neither do I, but in case I have to be, I want to be prepared.” Decius turned to pull a shaving blade from a drawer and sharpened it briskly on a whetstone.
“Why does the emperor scare you?” she said. “Will he recognize you? Are you Melgar?”
Antires gave her a searching look, then turned to Decius, now soaping his hands and spreading the lather on his face, dark with a day’s growth of beard.
Decius’ answer held an air of cold finality. “Melgar is dead.”
“You look like him,” she said.
“How do you know what Melgar looks like?” Antires asked.
“I saw him. And,” she said, “my sister used to have a bust of him she thought I didn’t know about.”
Antires grinned. “Izivar had a bust of Melgar?”
“I mean my other sister, Celidra,” she said, keeping her voice even. “She’s dead, too.”
Antires’ expression fell. “I’m sorry.”
Julivar didn’t want to dwell on that. “But Izivar found it one day when Celidra was still living in our house, and Celidra was so embarrassed Izivar confessed that she always thought Melgar was handsome too then said that they should never tell Father.”
“And you were there?”
She shrugged, proud that she often managed to be on hand when the interesting things were happening.
“What did Izivar think of Hanuvar?” Antires asked casually.
Decius ignored the entire conversation, studying his reflected face in the bronze mirror as he worked.
“Izivar said he was an arrogant man, risking others when he was too stubborn to admit he was wrong.”
Antires absorbed this without comment, then turned his attention to his companion, dragging a blade through the lather on his face.
“Are you actually a Cabera?” she asked him. “You look like one.”
“Pretty soon he’s going to look like a Ceori,” Antires spoke up. “Just as soon as we can spend a little time with his hair and wardrobe.”
It was strange that there was such familiarity between the two of them, and over personal matters like grooming and fashion. “Are you two lovers?”
“No,” Antires answered with a laugh.
“That’s good,” Julivar said, seeking the reflection of Decius’ eyes. “Because I think Izivar likes you.”
She was disappointed that got no reaction, but Decius did speak to her. “You should go now. And I suggest you stay hidden; don’t answer any questions from the emperor or his men, no matter how friendly they are.”
“You sound like Izivar,” she said crossly. “I won’t tell anyone about our secrets.”
Frustrated by their lack of trust, she left them to their preparations. The mystery of Decius’ real identity could wait. For now she was curious to learn what had been transported in those boxes and to catch a glimpse of the emperor himself. What could he possibly want?
II
The red cushions Pellas sat on within the emperor’s carriage were as plush and comfortable as the purple ones decorating the bench upon which the emperor reclined across from him. Pellas knew because during one of the emperor’s bathroom breaks, he’d slipped over to try them out. But no matter the cushion color there was apparently no way to render this carriage truly comfortable. Pellas’ entire backside was sore from the constant rattle over the roads. He remained astonished that the emperor had wished to extend his inspection tour to this remote outpost at the last moment, but then there was no knowing what the emperor might do day to day or hour to hour, not anymore.
Pellas was starting to wonder if the emperor’s entire explanation about visiting the lumber yards of the north had been a screen, for he’d looked extremely disinterested during the presentations, and only appeared focused when he decreed there would be a detour.
That focus had waned. At the moment, the emperor sat looking out the window, coughing.
The old man’s white mane of hair still looked impressive, but his skin had paled over the last months. He’d been a bulky, powerful man for long years and he still had the frame of one, although his shoulders were hunched and the weight had dropped away.
“You can stop staring, Pellas.” The emperor slowly turned his head away from the view of the screen of pines and the flat sea occasionally visible beyond them. “I’m not going to die in the next hour.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that, Excellency, but about how thin you’ve become. This travelling can’t be good for you. You need your bed, and your chef. And the sun of your garden.”
The emperor regarded him through drooping, bloodshot eyes. He covered his mouth and coughed. Lightly, this time. “I do need some wine,” he said.
Pellas quickly poured some from the decanter cleverly ensconced in a delicate wall cabinet. The matching cup he used was deep, so it wouldn’t disgorge splashes of wine while the carriage bumped.
The emperor managed not to spill any as he took a long drink. Yesterday there had been curses and a long delay and a change behind a dressing screen that had to be pulled off one of the trailing carts. And then, after two hours had been added on to the trip, the emperor had been furious with everyone but himself at the delay.
He handed the cup back and adjusted his toga.
There were some who thought Gaius Cornelius insisted upon the toga owing to dignity of his office, but Pellas suspected the emperor wore it constantly because he was always cold. Additionally, he draped a wool blanket across his shoulders.
Pellas had assumed the conversation over, but the emperor resumed it. “This is about the future.”
“Your eminence?”
“Enarius is smitten with this Volani woman. He says she isn’t similarly enamored. He swears it by all the gods and the soul of my poor sister and had told me not to worry about her.”
“But you’re worried about her,” Pellas said, putting just the right amount of warmth into the observation.
“I’m worried about the future. I don’t have much longer, Pellas, and I don’t want my son mooning over some Volani, much less marrying her once I’m with my ancestors.”
“Which I’m sure is many years away.”
The emperor growled at him.
“Why don’t you just have her killed?” he asked.
“That would upset my son.”
The adoption of Enarius was still strange to Pellas’ ears. He would adjust to it, just as he had adjusted to so many changes over the course of his tenure. He’d first been elevated into the emperor’s inner circle because of his talent with the same board games the emperor enjoyed, and because he was, perhaps foolishly, not afraid to win. When it came to his gaming, at least, Gaius wanted an actual competition. As the emperor had aged, Pellas’ position had somehow evolved into personal confidant and occasional nurse. It was in the former capacity that he smiled reassuringly. “He loves you, sire. He would get over it.”
The emperor let out a grunt that managed to convey disparagement and his disdain for the idea. Sometimes that would have been enough, but the emperor was in a talkative mood. “He has been fascinated with this woman for years, but her father and my spies have always reported she has no designs upon him. And he has told me that he knows he cannot have her. Now would that be fair of me to kill her, out of hand? Especially when my son tells me that he pledged—” he paused to cough without covering his mouth—“to her dying brother he would protect her? The brother he claims was slain trying to save him?”
“They’re all just Volani, sire.”
The emperor sighed. “We’re not at war with all the Volani any more than we are at war with all the Herrenes. It was just those in the city who posed a threat. It will destabilize the empire if our enemies imagine we’re out to exterminate them all. Besides, laborers in this shipyard are supposed to be working on some new designs that will benefit the empire.”
That, Pellas thought, was already the sound of Enarius speaking through the emperor’s mouth. “But who’s paying attention right now to whether or not Volani are running this new shipyard?” Pellas asked. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a citizen in charge of these shipyards, would it? Instead of this woman?”
The emperor’s eyes then were barbs of fire, and their burning malignance served as a stark reminder that the old man across from him had the power to kill in a finger snap. “Some relative of yours, perhaps?” he asked slowly.
It would have been folly to answer, so Pellas kept silent.
The emperor looked toward the window without actually peering through it. “I don’t know back end from front when it comes to ships, but the Volani do, and the empire can use that knowledge if we’re to grow.”
“Of course, sire.”
“Of course,” the emperor repeated darkly, under his breath, and fell silent.
Pellas was well acquainted with his master’s moods. Further conversation initiated on his own would only anger the man and drive a further wedge between them.
He better understood the emperor’s aims. Gaius was skeptical of the woman, but disposed to let her live and, if the intelligence reports from his own sources were accurate, the woman was as disinterested in Enarius as a lover as the emperor’s own reports had publicized. She was no fool.
But that didn’t mean that there weren’t actions to be taken. Aminius had advised him to think on his feet, and that he intended to do. Just because Enarius had been adopted as a son didn’t mean that there wasn’t still room for Aminius to rise. Especially if a wedge were driven between the emperor and Enarius. The death, say, of the lady Izivar during or immediately after the emperor’s visit. The young man would be unlikely to believe any of the old man’s denials if she were to perish around the same time as their interaction. The trick would be arranging it so that Pellas himself remained clear of suspicion.
But then, as the emperor’s personal companion, he had unprecedented access to the emperor and all others who came in contact with him. How hard would it be to arrange for an accident? He would assess the situation when he arrived.
III
Izivar told Julivar she was not to be seen by the emperor, much less heard, and ordered her to keep away from the listening post.
She’d kept to the letter of the first part of the order, staying well clear of the emperor’s sight, but she’d been on hand when the dozens of cloaked, armored praetorians rode into view. They looked rather dashing with their white lacquered armor and black cloaks, and she wondered how they kept their kit so clean on the move.
The praetorians had wandered around from the moment of their arrival, standing guard at intersections and the road to the village. While more of them were taking up posts in front of key buildings and Izivar was still rushing around ensuring everything was more neat and organized than it already was, Julivar took advantage of the bustle and crept through the kitchen into the pantry. From there she slipped into the cabinet with the concealed door and the listening post. She hadn’t actually responded to Izivar’s barked instructions so no one could rightly accuse her of breaking any promise. Once ensconced, she wondered again why she hadn’t bothered to bring a cushion. Izivar, she thought, would have remembered to do so.
The space had been modeled after the one their father had built into the side of his old office at the boxing arena, but it wasn’t as comfortable, perhaps because the whole building had been thrown together so quickly. It was supposed to be set up so that important advisors could listen in, but Izivar hadn’t been putting people in it at all.
The other side of the office was quiet for a long while, and Julivar began to wonder if maybe the emperor was meeting Izivar somewhere else. She’d been told she was terrible at waiting, though, and it was true. She resigned herself to being patient, because if she were to emerge now the kitchen staff would see her—she heard them banging around in there.
After a while, she realized that she actually could hear the sound of Izivar, and a man talking in a gruff, whispery voice. But she couldn’t understand what they were saying, and she swore quietly, using words Izivar would have frowned at.
Izivar must have deliberately rolled the shelf over to block access to the listening post, so that she could have absolute privacy. She’d done that every time she met with Decius.
The exchange with the emperor seemed to go on interminably. At one point, Julivar was certain she heard Izivar laugh, but she had no other indication about how her talk was going or what its subject was.
She was bored.
The sounds from the kitchen staff died out at last. She decided she would go find something more interesting to do. Carefully she slid from the concealed section, closing the hidden door behind her. She then peeped out of the pantry.
A man she didn’t recognize stood with his back to her. He was wearing an expensive red tunic with gold threads. A gilded goblet sat on the counter beside him, next to a slim blue amphora of wine, uncorked. Nearby was a goblet she recognized as her sister’s, dark red, with a wide base that faded to gold. The stranger, his dark head hunched, dipped a small cloth into a little unguent jar, just like the kind older women kept make-up in, and rubbed the inside of her sister’s goblet. Rings shone upon nearly every one of his fingers.
Julivar spoke without thinking, demanding loudly: “What are you doing?”
The man whirled, his eyes furtive, his hands wrapped secretively about the goblet and the unguent. She couldn’t tell his age but he didn’t have any gray in his hair.
“That’s my sister’s goblet,” Julivar said, advancing. A part of her wondered why she wasn’t frightened, but she couldn’t seem to shut up. “What is that? Is that poison? Are you putting poison in her goblet?”
“Keep your voice down,” the man hissed. “Who are you? This isn’t poison—”
“What is it then?” Julivar’s voice rose, which may be why the kitchen door suddenly banged open. Once again the man with the goblet whirled, this time away from her. In walked one of the praetorians, a tall man in lacquered white armor shaped into chest muscles. A shorter man with a broken nose followed on his heels, his eyes bright and dangerous.
“What’s this?” the first praetorian demanded.
“I’m Julivar Lenereva,” she said. “And that man—”
“The girl’s shouting about poison,” the man said. “She’s just excitable—”
“He’s holding poison behind his back!” Julivar pointed. “He was putting it in the goblets!”
Perhaps they immediately took her seriously because the praetorians were extremely cautious about threats upon the emperor’s life. Or perhaps it was because she sounded so confident and the stranger looked so very suspicious. It might even have been a consequence of the protective instinct she had noted among some well-bred men. They could be lecherous and demeaning to women at other times but leapt to shield them when they were threatened. The stranger spun to her and raised his hand to slap her, shouting to be silent, and the tall praetorian seized his hand as she backstepped.
“Let go of me,” the stranger whined. “I am the emperor’s personal companion!”
The tall praetorian wrenched the stranger’s arm behind his back and the broken-nosed one pried the tiny jar from his fingers.
“What’s this you were holding, Pellas?” Broken-nose demanded.
The man struggled vainly in the unyielding grasp of the tall soldier. “Unhand me!”
“What’s in the jar?” the other repeated through clenched teeth.
“I took it from the girl!”
“He’s lying,” Julivar said.
She saw from the look the tall praetorian gave her that he believed her.
“I demand to see the emperor!” Pellas said.
“I was just thinking about taking you there,” the tall soldier holding him said. “Elgius, take the goblets and the little pot. Who are you, girl?”
“I’m Julia, Izivar’s sister.” She remembered to use her Dervan name hoping it would further communicate trustworthiness to the emperor’s soldiers.
“Where did you even come from?” Pellas demanded.
She didn’t answer that, and the praetorians didn’t seem interested in learning. “Come with us, please,” the one holding Pellas said. The one named Elgius had placed everything on a serving platter and pushed the door aside with his hip.
Pellas’ voice rose in protestation. “Unhand me!”
“Eventually,” the praetorian replied.
It was only after Julivar was following the praetorians and their prisoner that she realized how heavily her heart beat and how much danger she might have been in. Suppose those praetorians hadn’t been nearby? Pellas was a lot bigger than her. And there were knives in the kitchen he could have grabbed. Suppose the praetorians hadn’t seen right through him? And what was going to happen if the emperor didn’t believe her, or them?
The praetorian loosened his hold on Pellas but kept his arm behind him, and as they drew near the office, he told a muscular, friendly faced soldier on guard outside that they had to interrupt.
Pellas had worked himself into a frenzy. “You will regret this,” he told his handler venomously. “I will see that you’re busted down to the lowliest frontier legionary, cleaning latrines on the gods-cursed, fly-infested Cerdian border!”
Elgius knocked on the office door, and to a gruff voice demanding what the interruption was, he replied. “There’s been a situation, sire. We need to report.”
Pellas continued his imprecations, and Julivar couldn’t hear an answer over them, but there must have been one, because Elgius pushed open the door.
It was strange to see the emperor seated behind the desk, but he was, and he proved disappointing, an old man nearly lost in his toga, with white fluffy hair and big fuzzy eyebrows. He didn’t look like a monster, just a curmudgeon. Izivar waited in the seat across from him, looking up in surprise and then shock as she spotted Julivar following the praetorians and their prisoner. Her sister gave her a searching look, as if she somehow expected Julivar to explain what was going on by motioning with her hands.
A side table overflowed with desserts that should have set her mouth watering, including puddings and four separate kinds of cakes. She paid them scant attention, her focus centered upon Pellas.
The poisoner proclaimed this was all a misunderstanding, but Elgius advanced with the wooden platter and the goblets. Izivar’s had fallen over. The unguent jar sat beside it.
The emperor’s brows lowered. He raised a white, wrinkled hand, and eventually Pellas shut up.
“Release Pellas,” the emperor said.
“I don’t trust him, sire,” Elgius said.
The emperor’s mouth twisted irritably. “What’s he done?”
Pellas answered before the praetorians could. “I was simply polishing the goblets and inspecting them, as I always do, eminence.” He shook his head as if in consternation. “But these—”
“He’s lying,” said a voice, and Julivar was astonished it was her own. She started forward and the praetorians both gave her a surprised look. Elgius even looked amused by her, in a friendly way. She continued: “I caught him rubbing something from a jar on the inside of the goblet.”
“She was trying to rub it,” Pellas said. “I took it from her—”
“I wouldn’t put poison in my own sister’s goblet!” Julivar objected shrilly.
Once more the emperor held up his hand. He faced Izivar. “Your sister?”
Izivar’s reply was so measured she managed to look completely untroubled, as though the entire situation were the merest trifle. “By my late father’s second wife.”
“Ah,” the emperor said.
“We believe the girl’s telling the truth,” the tall praetorian said. “Elgius and I were posted in the central room. We heard the girl shouting at him about poison and he denied having any. He was trying to hide that little jar behind his back when we went in to investigate.”
“Silvo’s correct, eminence,” said Elgius. “The girl was right in your secretary’s face, pointing at him, and he was acting like a man with a secret.”
“Well, well.” The emperor reached for Izivar’s goblet.
“Be careful, sire,” Silvo cautioned.
Ever so carefully he lifted Izivar’s goblet to his nostrils and sniffed. He looked at Pellas, nervously licking his lips, then returned the goblet and considered the unguent jar. He bent to sniff it as well and withdrew quickly.
“They smell identical, Pellas. Are you going to tell me this isn’t poison?”
Pellas said nothing.
“I could have you prove so,” the emperor said, a biting, dangerous note in his voice, “by licking it up.”
Pellas gulped and spoke with a great show of subservience, complete with lowered eyes. “Perhaps if I could speak to you alone, sire, I could clear all of this up.”
“No, Pellas, I don’t really want to hear it. You were trying to poison me, weren’t you?”
“You? No, sire!” He shook his head adamantly. “Just the woman.”
“I see. Just the woman I’ve dragged my weary body all the way north to talk with. Because you thought I might like that?” The emperor’s voice quavered. “I’ve a mind to have the praetorians force the goblet and jar both down your throat! Tell me why I shouldn’t!”
“Sire, this is all a misunder—”
He pointed at Pellas. “Get him out of my sight!”
Each praetorian grabbed the poisoner by his arms.
Pellas pleaded as they dragged him out, even choking down a sob. With his free hand he caught the door jamb and tried to hold himself there, still shouting to be heard. But then Silvo smashed him in the nose and blood splattered onto the wall, and Pellas wailed and let go. The guard outside closed the door after them.
The sobbing continued along with the tramp of hobnailed sandals and the sound of Pellas’ feet being dragged across the carpet outside.
It was only then Julivar realized that she remained in the room with her sister, and the emperor, whose eyes were rooted upon her.
IV
An untrained observer might have said that the praetorians were everywhere. But Hanuvar had carefully noted their positions. He had discarded his initial plan to disguise himself as a Ceori and dressed instead as a simple workman, the better to lose himself among dozens busy about the complex of buildings that evening. He had been eyed by one pair of praetorians with special care, but not halted. He imitated the stride of the other workmen moving about the site with tools or lumber or buckets of nails. They had their own places to be and didn’t pay him any special attention.
So far none of the praetorians were investigating the buildings with care, which suggested they were here for exactly the reasons they had stated. Their task was to secure the emperor’s immediate environs.
And that meant they wouldn’t be examining the very solid looking false wall in the back of the warehouse built into the hillside, where the survivors they’d liberated from the revenant prison had been moved in crates and were under medical care. There too was Carthalo, who did not wish to be linked in any way with the Volani naval venture, and the sorcerer, Norok of Nuvara, and Varahan, who’d designed the Volani fire that they’d used to such devastating affect against the revenant holdings. With them were a few others who had been freed extra legally. It was best not to chance any of their false paperwork against scrutiny unless it proved absolutely necessary.
Bucket in hand, Hanuvar neared the end of his survey, pleased that his charges were secure and that his goals remained a secret.
That left his concern for Izivar front and center. If the emperor meant to destroy them, he would have sent more soldiers. If he meant to pry into their technical achievements, there would have been naval architects and scholars in his entourage.
But he remained closeted with Izivar, which meant the emperor’s interest was a more personal one. Surely it was Enarius’ attachment to Izivar, a woman of the wrong ethnicity and age. She was a liability to the emperor and his political allies, especially after Gaius Cornelius had done so much to vilify the Volani.
The emperor’s measure taking of Izivar Lenereva would be conducted under the guise of a friendly visit, but it was in actuality a court case with but a single judge. How Izivar answered and portrayed herself, and how the emperor reacted to her, was the thin line between life and death. At this point her survival was directly linked with the welfare of their people, but he found himself troubled over the threat to her. Over the last months she had more and more regularly been present in his thoughts. At first he had passed this off as him being the prisoner to a younger man’s biology. More recently he had admitted to himself he made foolish excuses and that her true nature had been visible from their first meeting.
Yes, she possessed an air of entitlement. She was the product of an environment that had denied her almost nothing. And yet she had been shaped by trying circumstances and risen to meet them. She was astute and tenacious. She had suffered loss, and adeptly navigated her way through a hostile political situation. She thought long term and had committed herself and her family’s fortune to the ongoing enterprise to recover their people.
That her dark curling hair smelled always of a floral scent, or that she had light brown eyes flecked with gold and a warm smile that pierced him, and that she sometimes wore the flowing, layered ankle-length skirts of her foremothers . . . all of those things should only have been incidental considerations. More and more he found that they were not. He was so used to thinking of himself as an instrument self-shaped for his mission it was sometimes a surprise to discover he was as human as the next man.
This amused him, and as he finished his circuit of the complex he was smiling faintly at his self-deception. No matter Julivar’s teasing, he did not expect Izivar would ever see him as much more than a convenient ally, for she had been raised believing him an arrogant instrument of their culture’s destruction. Many Dervans thought him implacable and inhuman, so he was well-used to shrugging off the myths others would make of him, yet her sentiment stung. He might play many roles, but he was still only Hanuvar. And he naturally felt attracted to an intelligent disciplined woman who shared his goals and labored cleverly to reach them.
Though he weighed these concerns his attention never fully left his patrol. So when he turned a corner and spotted two praetorians leaving a path behind the warehouse he slipped back into hiding.
They passed Hanuvar’s hiding place without notice, as their attention seemed occupied with how they may be viewed. One of them brushed at his cloak. Leaves and petals fluttered from its edge. The other looked over his shoulder at the way they’d come, not once, but twice.
Something back there troubled them. And as the first one continued fretting with his cloak, Hanuvar noted neither man looked as if they fit their uniforms. On one the sleeves were too short and on the other the helmet sat high. Neither looked so ridiculous they would have drawn comment from a centurion, and neither would have been completely out of keeping with standard issue legion garments. But these men were praetorians, and while they weren’t the absolute cream of the crop they thought themselves, all dressed as though they were. Many were the pampered sons of patricians, and tailored their uniforms and employed skilled artisans to resize armor so that it didn’t just fit but flattered them.
These two walked with a typical legion stride toward the flat-fronted main office building. The moment they stopped looking back, Hanuvar slid around the corner and followed their track to the weedy patch running between the first warehouses and the rocky slope that lay below a stand of pines.
Their trail led to a staggered line of myrtles. The ground was heavy with scattered rock and weeds, and decaying leaves from autumns prior.
The sole of a motionless human foot protruded from behind a bush. After only a few more steps Hanuvar determined it was attached to a motionless human leg. It would have been a waste of time to verify the man was truly dead, and that his companion lay beside him. That was far less important than the fact two men were disguised as praetorians. The pretenders had boldly slain two of the elite force just now and left the bodies less than well-hidden, suggesting they did not have a long-term goal. Whatever they meant to do must already be underway. And Izivar was in discussion with the man who was almost certainly their prime target.
Hanuvar cast down his bucket and dashed back the way he’d come, rounding the corner at a run. He arrived in time to see both men disappear into the central office building where the emperor was meeting Izivar. The bored praetorian on the steps appeared not to have noticed that there was anything odd about them. But he keyed in on Hanuvar as he ran up, stiffening to alert and putting his hand to his sword.
“Halt right there,” the praetorian commanded. “Come no further—”
“Those men weren’t praetorians,” Hanuvar said. “Did you recognize them?”
“Who are you?”
“Listen to me, soldier,” Hanuvar snapped, the parade ground in his voice. “Those are impostors! Did you recognize them?”
His words gave the young man pause, but his small brown eyes hardened.
“The emperor’s in danger,” Hanuvar said, starting forward.
The soldier was still on guard but he didn’t draw. Hanuvar had already judged there was no convincing him, so he faked with his right and slammed his left into the knuckles of the praetorian’s sword hand. That slowed the young soldier’s pull, and the stamp on the man’s sandals left him cursing. As the praetorian’s head came forward, Hanuvar’s elbow slammed into his throat, and then he punched the tip of his heroic chin. The praetorian slipped nerveless to the stairs. From behind came shouts and the slap of sandaled feet. Other praetorians were on the way.
Fine with him, so long as they didn’t stop him. He needed backup.
He ripped the sword from the sheath of the groaning man at his feet then pushed into the building.
V
Izivar watched the emperor’s gaze shift from the objects on the platter before him and back to her little sister. She was certain her own surprise showed on her face and fought to mask her expression.
Julivar stood straight and tall and proud, looking very much like her mother. Izivar had never been fond of Julivar’s mother, but there had been no ignoring her when she decided to take a stand, no matter how petty her chosen battlefield. Julivar was far more intelligent than her mother and, Izivar suddenly realized, more courageous than she had ever expected.
The emperor’s gaze softened. “What is your name, young lady?” he asked.
“Juli—Julivar,” she said, defiantly using the name she preferred rather than the official Dervan name her father had given her. “Your eminence.”
The curious nature of her name made no impression upon him. “You are very brave,” the emperor told her. “You saved the life of your sister today, and since I’m not entirely sure that Pellas spoke the truth, you might have saved my life as well. Do you know that?”
“I suppose so,” she said softly.
“You don’t need to be shy now,” he said, and then coughed. His coughing fit lasted several moments, and Izivar started to rise.
The emperor waved her back. “I’m fine. It seems your entire family possesses great reservoirs of strength. I of course know of your own brother’s brave sacrifice defending my son. And it occurs to me now that your father required a certain courage to stand against the popular opinion of his people for so much of his life.” His eyes briefly settled upon the bust of Tannis she’d placed on the desk earlier that evening. “I know so many of your people were deceived into following ruinous policies. But your father, and his father before him, were always ready to defy the Caberas. It’s a shame that they couldn’t have convinced the rest of the populace to hear them. We might not have ended up with such a tragic situation.”
Once, Izivar would have agreed wholeheartedly with that assessment. It had been easy to believe it when she was surrounded on every side by those who agreed with her father. But in the years after Hanuvar and Melgar’s departure and in the months after the war, an old seed of doubt had sprouted. Her father had possessed courage, it was true, but some of his resolve was rooted in avarice. He had wished to protect what was his, including his earnings.
It might still be that her father’s positions during the second and third Volani wars had been right and it was the action of the Caberas that had brought Derva down upon their city. But she had come to see Hanuvar was right as well, for the empire had finally destroyed Volanus, just as Hanuvar, and his father before him, had warned. It had been easier to lay that blame at Hanuvar’s feet before she had become acquainted with him. He was not the vainglorious man her father and his adherents had claimed.
The emperor was staring at her and she realized that she had lost track of her own thoughts. “I’m sorry, your eminence.” She bowed her head. “I’m afraid this left me more shocked than I realized.” She faced her sister. “Julia may have saved my life, and I can’t help wondering if I’d have been as bold as she was in my own youth.”
The emperor’s smile at this was kind. He was saying something complimentary to them both, but she didn’t fully hear, for there was a shout from outside and what sounded like a scuffle and a cry of pain. Then the door was thrust open and a new praetorian shouldered his way in, a bloody blade in one hand.
“Your time’s up, emperor,” he announced gleefully, and advanced upon the desk. Another praetorian slipped in after him.
Julivar gasped. Izivar reached for the bronze vase in the niche to her left.
“Who are you?” the emperor demanded. He climbed to his feet. The praetorian in the lead charged.
Izivar pitched the vase. She’d been aiming for the man’s head, but she was no marksman. It fell short, striking the man in the leg, which fortunately sent him stumbling; he slammed into the desk, upsetting the goblets and the poison unguents and the plaster bust of Tannis Lenereva, which plummeted from the desk and crashed into pieces. The emperor leapt back with surprising speed and steadied himself against the rear wall.
The other assassin spun with sword leveled at Izivar, and it was only then she recognized him for her earlier visitor. Four feet lay between them. Julivar stood by the wall behind him, and Izivar feared she was about to do something that would get her killed. The praetorian who’d stumbled pulled himself upright.
Hanuvar burst through the open doorway. The soldier facing Izivar turned to confront him, then threw up the sword to block a fluffy green pillow flying toward his head.
Hanuvar, dressed in a simple workman’s garb, launched forward. The assassin had brought his weapon to the right as he swept the pillow clear. Hanuvar locked the weapon with his own sword and with his other hand drove a knife deep into his opponent’s neck. Blood spurted.
Izivar gasped in horror.
The dying assassin clapped a hand to the terrible wound and struck out sloppily. Izivar felt sure the blow would kill Hanuvar, but he slid away with preternatural grace and then the man fell, gurgling.
The first assailant put one hand to the desk, as though he meant to vault it. “For King Mithran!” he cried.
Much happened at the same time. Hanuvar lunged as the man pushed off the floor. Julivar leapt for the assassin, who got midway up the side of the desk, his body twisting just as her fingers closed around his ankle. Her leap brought her head into the front of the desk with a crack as she slammed into the floor. The assassin landed half on the desk edge with a grunt of his own, his sword clattering to one side, and then fell across Julivar, who cried out.
Hanuvar dragged him off Julivar. The assassin grabbed for a knife, but before he drew Hanuvar split his skull straight through to the teeth, spewing blood and brains and gore.
Only then did more praetorians turn up, calling for the emperor and advancing with bared weapons.
The emperor shouted for them to stop, but they came on.
Izivar threw herself in front of Hanuvar and her sister, only realizing after she did that she was unlikely to give the soldiers pause. Their swords were raised and she was but a woman, a Volani woman at that, and there were dead praetorians on the floor.
The emperor found his breath. “Stop, you fools!” he shouted. “Stop!”
The praetorians halted, uncertain, and the emperor was overcome by a coughing fit. He leaned against the desk, speaking through the cough. “These people saved me from . . . ” he paused, coughing, “assassins!”
“But this one attacked me!” The lead soldier waved his sword at Hanuvar.
“I tried to tell that guard these two were impostors,” Hanuvar said. “He refused to listen.”
“They’re assassins,” the emperor spat. “Do you know them?”
The praetorians gave Hanuvar another wary look, then, gazing down at the bodies, appeared more confused.
“No, sire,” one of them said.
“They’re Cerdians,” the emperor spat. “That one there said he was going to kill me for their king!”
Julivar quietly climbed to her feet behind Hanuvar, one hand holding her head.
“Drag their bodies out of here,” the emperor said, and then he swore. “A stranger and a little girl saved me. What happened to the soldier at the door to the office?”
“These two killed him,” Hanuvar answered.
“And how did they get past the one posted outside?” the emperor demanded of him.
Hanuvar shook his head. “I’m not sure, eminence.”
The emperor addressed the praetorians waspishly. “Stop staring! Drag them out of here!”
The one who Hanuvar had stunned outside pointed at him. “But that man has a blade in the presence of the emperor.” He sounded indignant.
“He just risked his life to save me!” the emperor’s voice rose in a screech. “You think he’s going to kill me now? You heard me! Get the bodies out! Out!”
With mumbled apologies, the praetorians sheathed their weapons and dragged the bodies away, each taking one by their arms. Both left a long smear of blood on the carpets. None closed the door behind them, and Izivar noted that the sweet-faced young praetorian she’d seen posted outside the door earlier did indeed lie dead, on his back, just past the threshold.
“Close the door!” the emperor demanded. Izivar did so.
The emperor leaned against the desk, panting.
Julivar crept across the floor, carefully sidestepping all the blood and the spatter of brains, and stood behind her sister.
Hanuvar remained beside the desk, looking at the emperor. His hand was tight upon the sword, and blood dripped down its runnels.
Izivar experienced an entirely different fear. Surely Hanuvar wouldn’t act. Not now. And yet . . . there, within reach, was the man who had commanded the destruction of Volanus and charged his followers with the sale of the pitiful survivors. What must Hanuvar be thinking?
Julivar, either frightened by the terrible events or aware of the tension, reached to take her hand. Izivar squeezed it without looking at her.
The emperor struck his chest with his fist, coughed a little longer, then collapsed into the chair behind the desk. He looked out at Izivar and Julivar, as if seeing them after a long absence, and then considered Hanuvar.
If he saw anything in that blank, thousand-yard stare, he did not acknowledge it. The emperor’s gaze was inward. “Twice, in the span of a half hour, your family has risked their lives to save me,” he said to Izivar.
That wasn’t entirely true, but Izivar wasn’t about to naysay the emperor when he spoke in her favor.
“They may think I’m old, but I see things,” he continued. “I know you threw that vase. I know your little sister grabbed that man’s foot.” Again he flashed a smile to Julivar. “By Jovren, girl, if you were a man, I’d commission you a tribune on the spot, because we need courage like that in the ranks. And who is this man? One of your slaves?”
Izivar started to explain that the Volani had no slaves. The emperor surely would remember that if he took a moment to think.
Hanuvar answered. “I’m one of the family’s personal guard,” he said. And then, with elaborate care, as if he were weary and the sword was an incredible weight, he knelt and placed the bloody blade on the floor before him.
“Well, you certainly know your business,” the emperor said. “Were you a legionary?”
“I have been a sailor, sir,” Hanuvar answered.
That seemed to befuddle the old man, and then he nodded. “I suppose you have seen your share of pirates.”
“I’ve faced a lot of bloodthirsty men.”
“I can tell you have. If not for your quick thinking, well.” The emperor cleared his throat and stared at Izivar. He knocked on the table. “Izivar Lenereva, I came today to measure your character. You have earned my honesty. I wished to learn if you had designs upon my son. You have denied it, and I believe you. Fully. More than that, what I have seen this day has convinced me that you remain a true friend not just to the empire, but to my family. From this day forward you and your communities are inviolate and will have my protection and blessing. However long I may live.” He smiled weakly at that. “And I am certain that my son will continue that tradition.”
“I am honored, eminence,” Izivar said, bowing her head. Hanuvar did the same.
“Further, I shall have a gift made to this man, and your sister, and shall have sacrifices made in their names in the temple of Jovren upon my return to Derva. If I had not just now had my assistant dragged away, I would have the decree written up this moment.” He coughed. “It occurs to me that if Pellas hadn’t been up to no good, there would have been two more guards on duty and then those assassins could not possibly have gotten through. He has much to answer for.”
The emperor’s mouth curled, and Izivar realized that much of his ire was going to be directed against the one surviving enemy of the day’s events.
The emperor pushed to his feet. “And now, young lady, if you do not mind, I am weary. I am in need of some wine, and a bed.”
“You are welcome to stay here, your eminence.” Izivar stepped around the desk, past her father’s shattered bust, and he leaned heavily against her. He smelled of mint and garlic and, faintly, of urine.
“No, no. I think my visit is already memorable enough. If I press hard, I can reach Carasus just after nightfall. My chefs are there and will have my food ready.” He patted her arm. “But if you would help me to the door, I would be grateful.”
She assisted him past the two long smears of blood. He didn’t notice tramping through some gray matter but frowned at the terrible stains on her beautiful carpet. It had once decorated her mother’s office in Volanus.
“I shall send you a new one,” he said.
The crimson stains continued across the floor tiles and down the outside stairs, as though they were a line for the emperor to follow. Once outside Izivar turned him over to some nervous looking praetorians and a huddle of slaves. Early in the visit the old man had told her he didn’t like being fawned over by slaves, but he seemed comfortable being assisted by them now.
She waited on the steps until he had climbed into the vehicle. By the time she’d returned to the office her hand maid Serliva had appeared to supervise workmen scrubbing the tiles. Two were carrying the blood-soaked rug from the office, rolled on their shoulders. She stood aside as two more praetorians solemnly removed the body of the soldier who’d died defending the door.
At sight of Izivar, Serliva fired off a rapid spate of worried questions, but Izivar assured her she was fine, that they would talk later, and retreated to her office.
Hanuvar remained inside, seated on the desk edge. Julivar sat in the chair before him. They appeared to be speaking intimately and fell silent as she drew close. Izivar couldn’t help feeling she had intruded upon a private moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Hanuvar shook his head. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Are you alright?” Julivar asked her with a depth of care and maturity she hadn’t used before.
“I am. Thanks to you. And Decius. You were very brave today, Julivar.”
“So were you.” Her sister stepped close and hugged her tight around the waist.
Izivar felt a great surge of affection for her little sister and held her tight.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” Julivar said.
Izivar kissed the top of her head. She wanted to ask how she was after seeing two grisly deaths and multiple bodies, but Julivar smiled at her, saying, “I’ll leave you two be.” She stepped around Serliva, standing distraught in the doorway, and called her away. Julivar glanced back once, her eyes straying to the cakes on the side table, then closed the door.
Izivar had wanted a moment alone with Hanuvar, but now that she had it, she felt uncomfortable. His eyes held a peculiar, haunting gray quality today, as if he could see right through her, and she didn’t want to be held up for scrutiny when she already felt fragile. She looked away. There on the floor lay his bloody blade, and there, to the left, lay the shattered bust of her father. Probably that signified some message from the gods. She stared down at two fragments of her father’s forehead, then looked back at Hanuvar.
His gaze had softened. A complex blend of sorrow and deep-seated pain was writ large upon his face, as though he had suffered some terrible injury that had never fully healed.
She understood that. “Thank you,” she said finally.
“For helping you? Or for not killing him.”
“For both.”
“I could have,” he said. “It would have been easy.”
“I know.”
Though he was a mature, powerful man, and she had just seen him kill two heavily armored assassins, as he stood there with empty hands and empty eyes it struck her how very vulnerable and lonely he was. She took a step toward him, hand outstretched. He took it in his own and suddenly he was holding both of hers and she felt an electric charge that both pleased and alarmed her.
“He was right there, in front of me. With the blood of our people on his hands.” Hanuvar fell silent. She squeezed his fingers in her own and then found herself gently brushing his hands with her thumbs.
“If I could have struck him down last year, or, gods willing, twenty years prior, I’d have done so without hesitation. But now . . . ”
“Now would have brought an end to our people.”
“The dead cry for vengeance. I have heard them.”
From the look in his eye, she wondered if he spoke figuratively.
“But you were acting for the living,” she said.
“Yes.” And then, quietly, he added: “I am glad you’re one of them.”
She felt herself blushing like a maiden and looked down at the fingers she stroked. “Well. Somehow we made it through the day.”
“An eventful one.”
She released one of his hands and tugged him toward the door with the other. “You’ve travelled a long way these last few days. Let’s see you fed.”
“I would like that.”
He left the room with her. If he thought about the bloody sword, or the shattered bust, he said nothing of them, and neither did she.
***
Many of us had noted the invisible bond growing between Hanuvar and Izivar, though neither of them had discussed it. When they finally relented to their mutual attraction and could be glimpsed in public touching the other’s shoulder or hand I nearly shouted with joy.
Other developments proved far less uplifting. Carthalo’s mage, an older Turian woman, examined Hanuvar’s aura for more than an hour and pronounced his lifeline broken. The spell had shattered it. Worse, she informed him that his accelerated aging would not slow when he approached his true age, which meant Hanuvar would grow to be an ancient and give up his ghost before the year’s end.
The magic worker said only a more powerful mage might be able to set things right. Unfortunately the Dervans had actively hunted witches and sorcerers for the last decade. Carthalo suggested another woman, one who had helped Hanuvar’s army in the final years of the second war, and messengers were sent out both to her and to the Ceori seer, Bricta.
Carthalo promised to use his network to make urgent inquiries about other sorcerers, but until we could consult with them, there was nothing to be done.
Hanuvar didn’t like dwelling upon his looming mortality. When I asked him about his subdued reaction, he merely said he was surprised he had survived so long.
“You sound remarkably resolved,” I said. “Don’t you want to see your daughter? Spend time with—” I paused, starting to describe Izivar as the woman he loved, and decided against using words he hadn’t publicly uttered “—a charming woman? See New Volanus once more?”
He gave me one of those hard looks which is what he did rather than roll his eyes. “Life is sweet, and I do not welcome death. There is much still to be done.”
Sometimes he could be quite open about his thoughts and feelings, but in this instance he remained closed. I managed to get him talking about it a day later, when he said he did not regret the gift of restored youth, because without it there were people he might not have saved. The first of these he was thinking of, I am very certain, was Izivar, valuable not just to him but to the entire enterprise.
Another might have been pleased with what he had accomplished, or worried over his own fragility, and left his duties to other men while he waited for assistance. Hanuvar, though, refused to pause, and when a series of difficult situations presented themselves, he rode forth to address them personally.
—Sosilos, Book Ten