Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (22 page)

“I apologize for such uncouth behavior,” she said to Utu, and then she placed her hand on Kusala’s shoulder and looked earnestly into his deep-blue eyes. Her eyes were black. “Since you were here just a few weeks ago, the mood of the fortress has changed—for the worse. I have never seen my father so
 . . .
bitter
. It’s as if he would rather go to war against our allies than our enemies. And Indajaala is not helping matters.

“Your arrival, Kusala, could not have come at a better time. You are one of the few who dares speak openly to the king. But I had hoped The Torgon would be with you. The Death-Knower is the only person my father regards as an equal
 . . .
other than Invictus himself.”

“I, too, wish that Torg was here,” Kusala said. “But my lord takes no directions from me. Will you escort me to Henepola? I must speak to him, for my journey does not end here.”

“You will not stay and fight by our side?” Palak said from his mount. “Those are cruel words. Perhaps the king is right, after all. It seems none but his own people will stand by Nissaya.”

“Tāseti will stay, along with the other Asēkhas,” Kusala said. “Two thousand Tugars are already here, and five thousand more are within a three-day march. Do not say again that none will stand at Nissaya’s side. The
Kantaara Yodhas
(desert warriors) do not cower.”

“If only the white horsemen of Jivita could say the same,” Madiraa said. “But enough debate. We linger too long outside the gates and bandy words in the absence of the king. Indajaala will soon report my insolence to Father. Let us go to him before his impatience turns to rage.”

“I fear no man’s rage,” Kusala said.

“I fear no man at all,” Utu said.

THE HALL OF Nagara was as magnificent as any chamber in the world—almost as broad as the entire keep, with ceilings higher than a strong knight could hurl a stone. Boulder-sized chunks of
Maōi
, as beautiful as the finest chandeliers, protruded from the ceiling like glowing eyeballs. Circular windows of glazed glass lined the upper third of the walls while palls of black silk framed the windows and extended all the way to the sunken floor, which was covered with rugs of strewn herbs and flowers. A long table constructed of black oak dominated the center of the chamber, with enough chairs to seat five hundred. At the far end of the hall, a granite platform rose ten cubits above the floor, and on it rested a black throne studded with rubies and fist-sized balls of
Maōi
.

Upon the throne sat King Henepola X, his long white hair cast about his shoulders, displaying to all that he was a conjurer as well as a king, a rare and formidable combination. Minus only his helm, Henepola wore full armor, black as kohl, except for silver spikes on the knuckles of his gauntlets and the toes of his sollerets. At his side stood Indajaala, a sneer on his dark face. The conjurer had changed quickly into a black robe speckled with pin-sized chips of
Maōi
, a garment worth a fortune anywhere on Triken.

At the base of the platform, fifteen steps beneath the throne, Madiraa and Palak were on their knees. Several paces farther back stood Kusala and Utu. Kusala wore the black outfit of an Asēkha, though it was stained gray from dust and grime. Utu wore only a loincloth, and his white mane was knotted and filthy. Compared to the king and the conjurer, they looked like peasants—though particularly large ones. Kusala was at least a span taller than any of the knights, and Utu was two and a half times their height and many times their girth.

When Henepola stood, all others in the room—save Kusala and Utu—mimicked Madiraa and Palak and dropped to their knees. The king held a long staff, ornately chiseled from
Maōi
and worth far more than Indajaala’s robe.

“So, Madiraa, you have finally deigned to alert me that Kusala has returned to Nissaya. You certainly took your time doing so. Do you deem me so trivial—a doddering old man incapable of greeting guests of high esteem?”

Madiraa raised her head, her expression grim. “Those are
his
words, not mine,” she said, nodding toward Indajaala.

The conjurer hissed. “She has always needed a mother to teach her the meaning of respect. See how she speaks to you.”

For a moment, Henepola glared at the conjurer. Then his face softened. “When her mother died, I vowed never to remarry, so deep was my love. It is I who raised my daughter. If she is insolent, I am to blame.”

To the amazement of all, Kusala stepped forward, without introduction. “And no sons have you, as well,” he said to the king, “so when you pass, it is Madiraa who will rule Nissaya.” Then Kusala glared at Indajaala. “Perhaps you would be wise to speak with pleasantry while in her presence.”

The conjurer hissed again. The chamber became as silent as a tomb.

But Henepola laughed. “Ahhh, Kusala, it is refreshing to be in the presence of one so bold. You have always spoken your mind, even to your
own
king. Come, my friend, let us retire to less opulent surroundings, where we can converse in private.”

Then he turned to Madiraa. “My daughter,” he said, with a touch of playfulness in his voice, “I will forgive you, if you personally see to it that the snow giant is fed and well-cared for. After all, Kusala has vouched for him.”

Madiraa smiled, her expression relieved. “It will be as you say, Father.”

Kusala looked up at Utu. “Would you mind if we separated?”

The snow giant shrugged disinterestedly.

“I will seek you out in the morning and tell you all that I know,” Kusala promised. “I would recommend your taking pleasure in the luxuries of Nagara while you can. There will be few opportunities for rest and relaxation in the coming days.”

“I desire neither,” Utu said.

WHILE HENEPOLA’S squires removed the king’s armor in his personal quarters, Kusala waited in a nearby antechamber on the top story of the keep. At the approach of midnight, Henepola, now wearing flowing white robes, joined Kusala at a stone table set adjacent to a northward-facing window that provided a panoramic view of the Mahaggata Mountains. The moon, waning gibbous, glowed like a malformed boulder of Maōi in the cloudless sky, illuminating the mountains, fortress, and surrounding terrain.

A servant arrived with goblets of wine, crusty brown bread, white cheese, and several dozen skewers of tiny pink shrimp bathed in butter and herbs. Finally realizing the extent of his hunger, Kusala devoured the shrimp, which were one of his favorite reasons for visiting the fortress.

“You see, my friend,” the king said, “I do not forget
 . . .
only the best for Chieftain-Kusala.”

Kusala wiped grease from his mouth with the side of his hand. “As always, your hospitality is much appreciated. If you would ever visit Anna, we would return the favor. There are delicacies in the desert, as well.”

Henepola grimaced. “I will never leave the fortress again. I have grown too old and weary for journeying. Besides, have you not noticed? There is a war to wage.”

“Have I not noticed? I am here, as are two thousand Tugars. And the rest of the Asēkhas will soon join us. Or have
you
not noticed?”

The king rested his elbows on the table and leaned way forward so that his glowing eyes were just a span away. “The Asēkhas are a boon, I cannot deny. But two thousand Tugars, you say? The last I heard, there were
ten
thousand
Kantaara Yodhas
. Have the rest become lost on their way from Tējo?”

Kusala leaned forward until the tips of their noses nearly touched. “Will you have us abandon Jivita?”

“
We
stand between Avici and Jivita.”

“Have you forgotten Dhutanga?”

“Dhutanga? Do the white horsemen fear a few miserable druids? The army of Invictus is two hundred thousand strong.”

“Two thousand Tugars are at Jivita, but five thousand remain near Hadaya, ready to march to the aid of whichever side needs it most. Only one thousand remain in Anna, by the way. Have you missed the subtlety of that?”

Henepola grunted. “Leave two thousand at Jivita. I care naught. But call the five thousand to Nissaya
 . . .
now. It is what your king would do, were he here. And speaking of The Torgon, where has he gone? When you and I last spoke, you were on a quest to find him. Did you fail, chieftain?”

Kusala leaned back in his chair. “Torg is alive. But where he is, and how he fares, is beyond my present knowledge.”

Henepola grunted again. “And yet
you
managed to return to Nissaya, so it must not have been such an impossible undertaking. The fate of Triken hangs on victory or defeat
 . . .
here.
And yet it seems no one deems Nissaya of much import. The Torgon is needed
here,
not gallivanting in the wilderness like a love-struck boy. Do you know, chieftain, that the great army of Invictus began its march this very day? I say again, the Tugars and Jivitans should be
here.
” The king lowered his head. “And yet, there are only two thousand Tugars, eighteen Asēkhas, and one snow giant,” he whispered. “Too few have the courage to stand with us.”

Kusala felt a chill run up his spine. “I am confused, sire. How could you know the exact size of Invictus’ army and when it began its march? How could you know there will be only
eighteen
Asēkhas at Nissaya? And why do you use the words ‘love struck’ when you speak of Torg?”

Henepola’s black face crinkled.

“Let me show you,” the king of Nissaya said.

“Show me what?” Chieftain-Kusala said to King Henepola X.

“Follow me,” Henepola said. “There is an object within my private quarters that you will find interesting.”

The look in the king’s eyes and his eerie tone disturbed Kusala, but he was not one to shy from any form of danger, so he stood and followed Henepola. The chamberlain and several other servants trailed behind.

The king waved them off. “Leave us
 . . .
and allow
no one
to disturb us.”

Henepola closed and barred the heavy door, which hung on iron hinges driven into the stone. Though Kusala had visited Nissaya hundreds of times, he had never been inside the king’s personal bedchambers. It was smaller than the massive royal bedrooms of Jivita’s opulent castles, but impressive, nonetheless. The bed was large enough for six and bore a white damask quilt trimmed with black lace. Four round windows had been chiseled out of the wall, each bearing curtains that matched the quilt. The other furnishings included tables, chairs, and a looking-glass as tall as a man. There also were several closets and a private latrine.

Henepola strode past all this with disregard, his white robes flowing behind him like wings. Kusala followed him into a narrow hallway that led to a door made of solid obsidian. Though Henepola remained a powerful man, he had to rest his staff against the wall and use both hands to push this door open.

The room was small, round and windowless. It also was dark and filled with a fetid mist that caused the skin on Kusala’s face to tingle. The king slammed the door shut. The room became utterly dark.

Henepola sensed his discomfort. “Is the great Kusala, Chieftain of the Asēkhas, frightened? I would not have believed it possible.”

“Neither you nor I have time for games. What have you to show me?”

The king laughed. “Patience has never been one of your virtues, Chieftain. Your lord has far more of it than you. Will you never learn from him?”

“As you have so
delicately
pointed out, my lord is not present.”

This time, Henepola didn’t laugh. Kusala heard shuffling, then murmuring. Suddenly the king’s
Maōi
staff filled the room with light. He placed its tail in a hole in the floor, balancing the staff like a lamp post. A U-shaped curtain hid something against the far wall. The king drew black silk aside, revealing the mysterious contents that lay beyond.

A wide basin of transparent crystal rested on a pedestal chiseled from obsidian. Kusala leaned over the basin and saw that it contained a silvery liquid within which he could see his own reflection. Its raggedness startled him. He hadn’t properly groomed since before meeting Torg in Kamupadana. Filth was encrusted in the lines on his face.

“Do you know what this is, Chieftain?”

“An expensive mirror?”

Henepola smacked him playfully on the back, though far harder than was necessary. The blow would have injured an ordinary man, but Kusala simply grunted in annoyance.

“Expensive? Most definitely. A mirror? In a manner of speaking. But it is far more than that. Allow me to demonstrate.”

The king waved his hand over the basin. Milky tendrils oozed from his fingertips, and the silver surface burst into color.

Kusala gasped.

An image of Torg and the woman named Laylah appeared. They were walking down a dark mountain path. He also recognized their other companions: Ugga, Bard, Elu, Lucius, and Rathburt.

“You asked earlier why I used the words ‘love-struck,’” Henepola said. “I have been watching your lord for several days now.”

“But how? What is this thing?”

“As a warrior, you have few rivals, but this level of magic is beyond your comprehension. Suffice it to say that it is not beyond
mine
. I made this myself . . . and with it, I can see far. Would you care to view more?”