It had been a poor day.
The first report she had expected and it did not dismay her too much. Her forces in the south were making better speed than Saradis wished. Already they had taken a fortified larger and killed everyone in it. Now the army moved forward and it was not impossible that the entire south would be conquered in a season. That was not for the best, but it was not a tragedy. The Rai often became enthusiastic when the killing was easy, but Saradis could manage her Rai. She was used to that.
Not so easy to face the note in her hand, or the monk of Tarl-an-Gig who stood before her, their head bowed and hidden beneath a pale hood. What it said felt impossible, still filtering through her consciousness and the words swam before her, becoming meaningless.
Laha was dead.
How could that be? Laha had been with her for ever; even when she had sent him away he had refused to leave. He had followed her through her disgrace and her madness. She had been sure that Laha would be the one who stood at her side when the world burned, when Zorir rose. But no. Not now.
Laha was dead.
Taken from her by Cahan Du-Nahere. She found herself trembling, grief and anger mixing until they were indistinguishable.
“Shall I send the woman in, Skua-Rai?”
Her? For a moment she did not know what the monk was talking about. Send who in? Grief had washed away all sense. She took a breath. Sat straighter. Composed herself. What had the monk been saying to her? She could not show how shaken she was.
“It is rare the bearer of messages such as this,” she held up the note, “would wish to see me.”
“She came with the body, she is quite insistent, Skua-Rai. She has Laha’s willwood rosette and it does not bleed her.” The body? She had brought the body all this way? “She has also brought a prisoner.” Saradis blinked away tears. If this woman had his rosette, and carried it without wound then she had Laha’s confidence. And a prisoner? What could that mean?
“Take her to my rooms.”
“Not here, Skua-Rai? Shall I send guards also?”
“No.” Saradis did not know what Laha had told this woman. “Just send this Rai to me.”
“She is not Rai.”
“What?”
“She dresses like Rai. But the Rai say she is not one of them. They do not like her.”
That at least was interesting.
“As I said, send her to my rooms.” The monk nodded and backed out of the reception room. Saradis did not go straight there, let this woman wait while she walked off her grief. Instead she went to the Cowl-Rai, to look in on her and report on the gains in the south – if the Cowl-Rai was in any state to receive her words. She passed the silent guards, found herself in what had once been a throne room, now she thought of it as the cage room. It stank of animals and sweat. The Cowl-Rai lay on the floor, hair a corona around her head as she moaned softly.
Saradis’s first thought was that Nahac was ill, her instinct to run into the cage and check on her, but she had fallen for that before. Seven guards had died caging Nahac again, and another ten she had been forced to kill as they had witnessed the Cowl-Rai’s madness.
“Cowl-Rai,” she said softly, and the figure in the cage rolled over groaning. She pushed herself up onto all fours like an animal. Her eyes were bloodshot and the blue lines beneath her skin looked brighter than usual. The stone on her head glowed.
“Take it out,” each word a struggle, “please, take it out.”
“I cannot, you know that. It will kill you.”
“Please,” the word barely perceptible, “the voice hurts so much.”
“Voice?” said Saradis, and found herself focused on the Cowl-Rai in a way she rarely was. “What voice?”
“Please,” her words growing stronger, louder and she clamped her hands to either side of her head. Her agonies shaking her body. “Take it away.”
“The voice, what does it say?” asked Saradis again. Something cleared in the Cowl-Rai’s eyes and she shuffled forwards, put her hands on the bars. Sweat ran down her face.
“If I tell you,” she said, each word a gasp, punctuated by short sharp breaths, “will you take the stone out?”
“You will die.”
“I do not care.”
“Tell me then.” She found herself whispering. “Tell me what you hear.”
“Stronger,” said Nahac, “it’s getting stronger.”
“Zorir?”
“The fire is coming!” The words a shriek of agony. Something soared within Saradis, Laha’s death almost forgotten. Then Nahac spoke again, begging. “Take it out, you promised.” Saradis took a step back, and another, and for every step the Cowl-Rai repeated, “Take it out,” getting more and more desperate as Saradis backed away.
“Cowl-Rai,” she said, “you are the conduit of a god now, I cannot take that from you because of a moment of weakness.” With that she opened the door and slipped out; behind her the Cowl-Rai screamed and raged and the liquid darkness of her magic ripped apart the furniture in her cage.
When Saradis entered her rooms the woman waiting stood and gave her a small bow. There was something to it that made Saradis smile, not an unwillingness exactly, but it was not the way the Rai usually bowed to her. There was a resentment and an anger that radiated from this woman and she did not care who saw it. You want to see the world burn, thought Saradis, maybe we are more alike than you could ever know.
“You brought news of the death of Laha,” said Saradis. She sat upon her most upright and uncomfortable chair, her stiff robes of many folds, and cage of twigs making her look suitably imperious. “He was dear to me, I have killed people for less.” The woman did not appear frightened. She looked around the room, chose a well-padded chair then sat. “I am told you have brought his body with you too. I am curious as to why you think I would want a corpse.”
“He requested it.”
“Laha?” Did her surprise come through? She tried not to let it show. The woman looked up at her, something about her, not only resentful now but calculating.
“He said he was not dying, only becoming. I got the feeling he thought you would understand.”
“Of course,” said Saradis, “that makes sense.” It did not, she did not understand at all.
“So you know why he does not corrupt?” said the woman. “A whole eightday dead, and he does not smell at all. Not even the wound that poisoned him stinks.” Saradis had the strangest feeling the woman was somehow testing her. That a smile hid behind her face that could only be sensed, not seen.
“Tarl-an-Gig is powerful,” said Saradis, “and Laha was one of the chosen.”
“Of course,” said the woman. You are mocking me, thought Saradis, and she studied the woman before her. Sharp eyes, white make-up cracked from travel. Once splendid armour now scuffed and used, a fighter. A survivor.
“Did Laha say anything else?”
“To put him on the stone.” Saradis wondered about that. Then nodded as if it also made perfect sense.
“Tell me about the prisoner you brought.”
“You don’t want to know how your favourite died?”
“Did I ask?” The woman narrowed her eyes, then bowed her head in acknowledgement.
“My prisoner is Furin, Leoric of Harn.”
“Then why is she alive? I do not suffer traitors to live.”
“She is alive, Skua-Rai, because I believe you want Cahan Du-Nahere?”
“And?”
“She is dear to Du-Nahere.” The woman smiled. “I have let him know she will be executed. I have told him where and when and that we will take him in exchange.” Saradis would usually have taken exception at such plans being made before she was consulted. But she found herself – not liking this woman, she liked very few people, but admiring her, she was clever. Had seen an opportunity and taken it.
“You believe he will give himself up?”
“He is weak; even if he decides to fight for her, I will capture him for you.”
“You will?” Saradis could not keep the surprise from her voice, or the disbelief. “Cahan Du-Nahere destroyed an entire army, but you will capture him?”
“He took my cowl.” The woman stood, breathed through her nose as if to channel her anger. “Now I am one of your dullers, but walking,” she said. “I am the weapon you need to capture him.”
So this was Sorha, thought Saradis. She had tried and failed to take Cahan before. Though what she said was true of course, a warrior who could stop a Cowl-Rai using their powers was priceless to someone like Saradis and Laha would know that. If he was dying, maybe he saw her as a replacement?
But a warrior who failed, that she could not put up with. To forgive would make her look weak. Truly, her god guided her through a troubled landscape.
Yet Laha must have seen something in her.
“How was Laha killed?”
“He heard Forestals and Cahan Du-Nahere were attacking caravans,” said Sorha. “He intercepted him, killed the two women who protected him. Almost finished Du-Nahere but the Forestals intervened.”
“Why would Laha do that,” she said, “if you had this woman who is dear to Du-Nahere?”
“He did not know I had the woman.” Saradis nodded again.
“And you really think he will simply give himself up?” The woman before Saradis smiled. Nodded.
“He will, he has done before. He walked unarmed to me for a village full of people who despised him.” She straightened up. “Imagine what he will do to save someone who really cares for him as he cares for them.”
“So he comes here, to Tiltspire?” Sorha shook her head.
“No, if there is one thing Du-Nahere had shown it is that he is full of surprises. It seemed foolish to risk him coming here.”
“Then where? How?”
“The execution grounds of the eastern Slowlands.”
“The viewing stand there was damaged in the great shaking of the last season, when a rift opened between the taffistone and the Slowlands.”
“Surely it can be fixed?” said the woman. Saradis stared at her, insolent, sure of herself despite her failures.
“If I approve your plan,” she replied.
“He is coming whether you approve it or not.”
“You should have told them to bring the trion as well.”
“With Cahan out the way,” said Sorha, “there will be no one to stop you taking the trion.” Saradis thought on that, the woman was right of course, but she did not want to say that, not now. Not here.
“You say he has aligned with the Forestals?” Sorha nodded. “Their bows are dangerous. A city hampers them, denies them range, forces them into close combat where they are weak.”
“The Slowlands are empty, flat. We will see him coming from a long way off. He knows to come alone. If he does not we kill the woman and leave. We are no worse off.”
“Well,” Saradis stood, “it seems you have it all worked out.” She walked forward. “But you cannot kill him.” Fury passed across Sorha’s face, a brief and intense flash before the woman gained control.
“He is too dangerous to keep alive.”
“My god wants him alive so he will be taken alive. It is not a discussion.” Saradis waited as the woman fought for control, and realised she had decided she would use her.
“Very well. Alive,” said Sorha. Saradis tapped a finger against her knee.
“I will send people to rebuild the scaffolds. The rift will need a bridge as well, we do not know which direction he will come from. We will make a celebration of it. Maybe execute some others while we wait. It has been a long time since I have seen a Slowlands death. I miss it.”
“But I will be the one who takes Cahan Du-Nahere?” said Sorha. Her hatred was impressive. Saradis wondered if was what kept her going, and what would keep her going once Du-Nahere was taken.
“Yes,” said Saradis. “Give me Laha’s rosette.” The woman dug into the coat she wore over her armour and passed the rosette over to Saradis. A willwood star of Iftal, a circle with eight points growing from it.
“This is a symbol of my authority, you have to earn it,” said Saradis. “Do so and I may give it back to you.” Sorha stood back.
“What else should I do to earn your trust then, Skua-Rai?” Even now, beaten, she could not hide the mockery in her voice. You truly are dangerous, thought Saradis.
“Go to the Slowlands, ready it for the executions. I will follow with the prisoner when it is ready.”
“Very well.” She bowed her head.
When she was gone, Saradis called her monks. Had them take the body of Laha to the room where she communed with Zorir’s stone. While they did she reapplied the white make-up to her face. The lines of her rank replaced, she found her centre, breathed and calmed herself.
When that was done she went to look upon the body of Laha. He looked peaceful, except where the arrow had struck him and the darkness around it. Poison put into his body by cowards with cowards’ weapons. She touched his face. So serene, the fragments of stone in his forehead still glowed slightly.
“The stone,” she said to herself. Closed her eyes, swallowed.
From her waist she took the ropes which cinched her robes tight and tied them around Laha’s wrists. His body was slack, cold, and heavier than she thought his slight frame should be. With much struggling, grunting and fighting, she pulled him up until he was draped over the stone. His back against it, hands stretched over the top.
It exhausted her, took all her strength. She squatted before the stone as if about to commune with Zorir, but not this time, all she wanted was her breath back. To rest a little.
Behind the stone, the Light Above fell below the horizon, and in the darkness she saw the faint blue glow of the taffistone. It not only ran across the stone but over the body of Laha, and she wondered what gift her god would give her, give him.
She had a flash.
A momentary vision of the world below, the growing loom of Zorir’s power, and at the centre of it a great, dark, eight-pointed star. Did she hear a scream from far below, where the Cowl-Rai was imprisoned?
She bowed her head.
“Zorir,” the word a breath, “your power is growing, our time is near.”