Citadels of the Lost (18 page)

Drakis looked over his shoulder. “Them? They are the future, Soen. They are what is coming.”

“The future?” Soen said with a nervous laugh. “Then they are not coming very fast.”

“Faster than you think, friend,” Drakis said as he walked past the Inquisitor and started toward the folly. “I can show you your future, Soen—it's just in there. You Iblisi are all concerned with keeping the truth, the guardians of truth—or is that the buriers of the truth, I've never quite understood the difference. Follow me, and I'll show you a truth no living soul has ever known.”

Soen started to walk after Drakis.
How is it possible that I, an Inquisitor of the Iblisi should find myself over a thousand leagues from the Lyceum Halls of Rhonas and stumble through a blind fog to find the one human in all the Northmarch that I want to find? That Drakis should have changed so little and look exactly as I expected . . .

“You haven't changed at all, have you, Drakis?” Soen asked casually.

“You would be surprised at how much,” Drakis said. “You'll see as soon as we're inside.”

“How good of you to remember my name,” Soen spoke quietly.

Without warning, Soen swung his Matei staff. The sound of it tore the air with speed and strength, aimed precisely at the base of the human's neck.

Soen nearly fell off-balance as the staff passed unhindered through the neck of Drakis, ripping through the air on the other side. Yet in the instant of contact, a bone-chilling cold rushed up the length of the staff, shooting into Soen's fingers, running up his arms and driving frigid pain into his beating heart.

The Inquisitor stumbled slightly, recovering as the staff continued its powerful arc and nearly carried him over with it.

“Been looking for me?” Drakis turned around, facing Soen—but this time the dark eyes of the human were empty space. The apparition of Drakis grinned. “We've been
looking
for you!”

Soen ran past the folly, away from the stone army, leaving all of it to fall behind him. He found a river with an ancient, broken bridge and followed its banks to what he thought was the north.

The river led him to the folly.

Soen turned at a right angle to the river, pushing his way through a thicket of dead trees in the thick green glow of the mists. He came too quickly upon a precipice, fell over its edge and tumbled down the slope sliding at last to a stop.

He pushed himself painfully to his feet.

The folly stood before him, a mist-shrouded squat tower ahead of him in the green, glowing fog. Three shadowy figures were moving toward him out of the fog.

Qinsei, Phang, and Jukung—all fellow members of the Iblisi Order and all of whom Soen knew for a fact to have died. Jukung's face was disfigured as he had last seen him, including the great gash across his windpipe that Soen had cut for him. They shifted around to surround him, their own Matei staffs leveled at him, urging him toward the folly.

Soen bared his teeth.

A deep, resounding shock wave rolled across the plain, followed at once by a white, diffuse point of light in the fog to Soen's right. The dead Iblisi around Soen turned in shock toward the new, searing light. A second, deafening sound rolled over them as the fog was driven back, burned away by the light. The specters surrounding Soen keened horribly, their shrill voices in agony as their shapes collapsed into dust in the sudden wind.

On a rise over the plain, the single figure of a manticore stood. The light shone from the tip of the sword he held high over his head. Already, figures were emerging from the fog, held at bay by the light of the sword, and gathering around the manticore. Men, women, children of humans, manticores, chimerians, and others—many having even managed to keep control of their wagons and beasts—thronged toward the lone manticore at the top of the rise.

Soen turned and walked toward the light.

S
JEI-SHURIAN WAS OFFENDED by the rain.

He normally enjoyed a good downpour in Rhonas Chas. It allowed him to be even more secluded than usual as he passed down the streets of the great city, and he enjoyed having the streets largely to himself. Rhonas Chas was, he reflected, much more impressive without all the elves clogging the streets and spoiling his view. The rain washed down the streets, giving them a gloss under the leaden skies overhead. He preferred the softer light of the cloud-shrouded rainfall to the starker, glaring illumination of clear skies.

But today he found the weather an affront because it had been so ordered at the Emperor's whim. The Imperator of all Rhonas was melancholy, and High Priest Wejon Rei of the Myrdin-dai had inferred at court that this should mean that all of Rhonas Chas should weep with him—including the sky. It irritated the Sinechai of the Modalis that the beloved rain should fall simply because of the Imperial whim.

Sjei's booted footfalls splashed down the length of the narrow
Via Chiompasi
, turning to his right at the intersecting
Via Torakia,
which opened almost at once onto the
Paz Vitratjen
—the Plaza of the Unexpressed. A column of polished stone rose from the center of the ornate fountain, soaring nearly a hundred and fifty feet above the cobblestones and capped by a statue of Rhon flanked by smaller statues of Mnearis, the goddess of silent contemplation, and Anjei, the god of seeing the unseen and hearing the unspoken truth.

Fitting, Sjei thought as he crossed the wide plaza toward the myriad buildings comprising The Ministries to the southwest, that these should watch over the Plaza of the Unexpressed. Keeping the truth unspoken was the watchword of all Rhonas Chas, and contemplation in silence was the only way one could keep from quietly vanishing both from memory and existence within the Imperial City.

Sjei drew his thick cloak tighter about him against the rain as he quickened his steps toward the
Via Rhonas
. He had little time to make his appointment with the one woman in all the Empire with whom one could never afford to be late. It could not have been helped as the news he had received required verification before he could risk even mentioning the subject to his host, and his confirmations had only come to his ears minutes before.

Now, having been confirmed, this meeting was not only inevitable but also critical.

Sjei-Shurian quickly moved down the wide avenue of the
Via Rhonas
and across the God's Bridge, the rain drawing a veil around him as he crossed the island toward the Old Keep of the Iblisi.

“My dear Sjei! How kind of you to call.”

Sjei smiled, mentally arming himself for the cut and thrust of the verbal engagement. Both of them knew that kindness had nothing to do with his presence in the Iblisi stronghold. “It was most gracious of you to agree to see me, Keeper, especially on such short notice. Your time is precious and not lightly granted.”

“I only regret that this weather prevents us from meeting in more comfortable surroundings,” Ch'drei pulled her lips even farther back into what should have passed for a smile but seemed more a hideous grin.

Ch'drei Tsi-Auruun, Keeper of the Iblisi, sat on her throne in her wide hall with the low ceiling beneath the courtyard of the Old Keep. She was an ancient-looking elven female, the skin of her face so tight that her sharp teeth seemed to hold a perpetually cadaverous smile. She stooped forward on her throne, gripping her
Matei
staff as though it alone was keeping her from falling to the floor. Sjei noted, however, that her black eyes were still shining and that she was not leaning on the staff nearly as hard as she would have him believe. As to her regretting the weather, Sjei would not have put it past her to have arranged it. “You need not be troubled, Keeper. Indeed, it is my concern for you and your honorable Order that brings me here today.”

Ch'drei blinked. Sjei was being direct and the Keeper was uncomfortable on such open ground. “Indeed, your concern must be urgent to bring the Ghenetar Omris of the Order of Vash to me in such haste. Perhaps it has something to do with your cousin's daughter?”

Sjei braced himself but it was too late.

“Hers is a sad tale, is it not?” Ch'drei bowed her head slightly. “Returned from the Western Provinces, her family and honor lost. The makings of an epic were it not so tragic—though I suspect that ‘epic' it will become in its telling should a few unpleasant details be omitted.”

Sjei kept silent, refusing to give his adversary the satisfaction of an acknowledged hit. Parry and riposte, then parry again until the opportunity to strike presents itself. Turn the opponent's advantage to your own. He bided his time, offering up the truth to the Keeper of Truth until the time was right for the lie to be told.

“There is no point in denying it to you, Keeper. It is partially on her behalf that I have come,” Sjei said. “This girl . . .”

“Shebin,” Ch'drei said with quiet confidence. “You may use her name here where everything is known.”

Not everything,
Sjei thought.
At least, I fervently hope not everything.
Already he sensed he had given away too much. He had confirmed Ch'drei's suspicions about Shebin and their relationship. That knowledge could go badly for him in the wrong ears. Still, Sjei knew in this game that one should always use the truth until the lie was absolutely necessary. “As you wish, Keeper. Shebin Timuran of the House of Timuran is, indeed, the daughter of my unfortunate fool of a cousin. It has become a matter of honor in my House that we find the one who so terribly wronged her and bring him before Imperial justice . . .”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Ch'drei waved her hand dismissively. “This slave named Drakis who has fled to the north. And I suppose you wish for the Iblisi to find this runaway slave for you?”

“No, Mistress Keeper.”

Ch'drei moved as if to speak and then paused for a moment. “You do not wish us to find this slave Drakis?”

“No, Mistress,” Sjei replied. “We have already done so. He is forming an army of rebellion in the northern provinces and the Legions have been dispatched to deal with the problem. That is not why I have come before the Keeper of all the Iblisi.”

Ch'drei frowned. “What has happened that would occasion this humble Keeper of the Truth to be of service to you?”

Sjei clasped his hands behind his back. “I come with strange news, Keeper, and would hope that your wisdom would guide me.”

“All the knowledge of the Iblisi is at your disposal,” Ch'drei lied. “What news brings you here?”

“News of a battle, Keeper,” Sjei replied. “A battle most gloriously won beyond the Northmarch Folds north of a place known there as the Whispering Hills against this same army of rebellion.”

“The Shrouded Plain,” Ch'drei said. “It is on the Ephindrian frontier, if I am not mistaken.”

“You are most learned of all elves, Keeper,” Sjei replied.

“And you have come to tell me you are troubled by this great and glorious victory against the enemy of your House?” Ch'drei said, impatience coloring her words.

“I have come to report that the victory was not as complete as the commanders in the field have reported to the Imperial Throne,” Sjei responded. “The Blade of the Northern Will Legions were in pursuit of this Drakis rebellion; a large force of rebellious manticores and chimerians fleeing northward out of Northern Steppes. They all believe in some nonsense about this slave being a human legend though I can make little of it.”

“Indeed?” Ch'drei answered, her smile having somehow managed to lessen slightly. “A human legend, you say?”

“It's of no consequence,” Sjei said, smiling inwardly. “I am more interested in the reports that, after our warriors engaged these rebels on the very edge of this Shrouded Plain, they fled into the mists, and our forces were unable to either find or pursue them. Contact with this large group of dangerous rebels has been temporarily lost.”

Another lie. Sjei knew exactly where they were—which was why he had come.

“An unfortunate result,” Ch'drei agreed leaning back slightly. Sjei realized she was feeling uncomfortable being forced to stoop over on her chair. Ch'drei wanted to straighten up against the back of the throne but could not do so while Sjei remained or risk giving up her pretense of being feeble. “Word had reached our ears of such a battle, but we are sorry to hear that the outcome had not been as complete as we had previously heard. I regret that I am unlearned in the arts of war, Ghenetar Omris Sjei, and feel ill equipped as to how I might advise you on matters of marshal conflict.”

“On the contrary, Keeper, you can be of great assistance to me,” Sjei replied with a nod of his head. “The details of the final moments of this battle have only recently been made known to me. It seems that while our armies were on the verge of complete victory, one individual changed the complexion of the field of battle and allowed the rebels to escape.”