3. ROYAL OBLIGATIONS

Janel’s story

The Mother of Trees, the Manol

The day of Vol Karoth’s escape

The vané soldiers came to attention as the star portal spun into existence, brightened to blinding intensity, and then faded, leaving its passengers behind.

Most of the star portals that linked the different parts of the Manol to each other were inside, kept deep in the center of sky trees or locked away in well-hidden, equally well-guarded rooms where access was strictly controlled. Few outsiders knew of the existence of the portals. Those who did assumed they didn’t link to the outside world. And as it happened, that assumption was incorrect.

There’d been one outsider who’d had a permanent invitation to the heart of the Manol capital.

“Well,” Teraeth said as he stepped forward. “I suppose that answers the question on whether or not Grizzst kept visiting Khaevatz after he resurrected the Eight Immortals.”1 The amused look on his face faded as more soldiers rushed into the room, clearly caught unaware by the sudden appearance of newcomers. They all had weapons ready.

Teraeth narrowed his eyes at the soldiers. His soldiers. “Seriously?”

Janel thought the problem was less likely to be an issue with Teraeth than his guests. Just as Teraeth was recognizably and distinctly Manol vané, Xivan, “Kihrin,” and Janel were all distinctly … not. She could hardly blame the vané for being inhospitable to obviously Quuros visitors. Most especially unexpected Quuros visitors arriving through a gate no Quuros should even know exists, let alone be able to access.

“Put those away,” Teraeth snapped. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Teraeth.” Kihrin put a hand on Teraeth’s arm; Janel hid her flinch.

Because it wasn’t Kihrin. It was the mimic, Talon, pretending to be Kihrin. Which she was doing because Kihrin had specifically requested it. Much as Janel hated it, Talon was doing her job. All Janel had to do in return was act like she tolerated the fake Kihrin without wanting to rip the mimic into tiny little pieces. Pretend that she was looking at one of the men she loved and not his murderer.²

Anyway, they had different problems that took precedence. “Forytu, would you be so kind as to escort us to His Majesty? I know he’s not expecting us, but we had no way to send word ahead of our arrival.”

The guard’s eyes slid over to Teraeth, lingered for a moment, and then back again to Janel.

Perhaps the Quuros people weren’t the only issue here.

“I know,” she told him. “But surely His Majesty gave instructions for this?”

“Janel? A word?” Teraeth grabbed her arm and nudged her to the side. “His Majesty? What is going on?”

She snaked an arm around his waist. Janel could hardly blame him for being concerned. He likely expected to return to find either Khaeriel, his niece, or Valathea, his stepmother, running things, and neither one of those would ever use the title “His Majesty.” “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, but—”

The soldier, Forytu, interrupted. “My apologies. We were given instructions. Please come with us. His Majesty will want to speak with you.”

The other soldiers fell around them in a technically “polite” circle that Janel was choosing to interpret as an honor guard rather than an armed escort.

“You know what’s going on?” Talon addressed Janel directly.

Janel wished Talon wouldn’t try to talk to her, but appearances had to be maintained.

“I do,” Janel said primly. She motioned for everyone else to follow her. “Let’s go quickly, shall we? The sooner we sort this out, the sooner we can do what we came here for.”

Janel appreciated the irony: she had told Teraeth what was going on, but he’d just been too out of it at the time to process the information in any meaningful or lasting fashion.

The streets of the Mother of Trees, the capital city of the Manol nation, were silent and solemn. Not deserted, but those few who walked its avenues did so with quiet purpose, grimly putting themselves to work repairing the damage to the country. The vané were better off than the Quuros, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t taken significant damage. The loss of the Well of Spirals had hit the vané hard. So too had the loss of four of the Eight Guardians. For while the vané may not have worshipped them as gods, that didn’t mean they were ignorant of their true role. And that wasn’t even counting the psychological toll resulting from the vané discovering the true nature of their own “immortality.”

In some ways, the vané were worse off than the Quuros. The citizens of the latter didn’t really understand how bad the situation was. They had hope that this would just be temporary, that someone—emperor, high lords, gods—would save them. They understood demons, but the vast majority of Quuros had never heard the names Relos Var or Vol Karoth. The vané, on the other hand, were well educated. Many of them were old enough to remember the specific people and events precipitating this catastrophe.

The vané were terrified.

As Janel walked through the vané streets, she felt a keen, piercing homesickness for Jorat. She yearned for wide fields and waving grasses, herds of roaming horses, the crack of thunder from summer storms. She wanted the ground under her feet and Arasgon nudging her shoulder with an impossibly soft velvet nose.³ She missed Dorna and the scent of roasting tamarane meats pulling her from the training grounds. She longed for the apple orchards of Tolamer and the smell of snow and pine coming down from the mountains.

She wasn’t going to get any of that and didn’t know when—or worse, if—that would change.

This particular portal locale had been so heavily guarded precisely because it existed just inside the palace walls, well inside the boundaries of checkpoints meant to weed out impostors, assassins, and general ne’er-do-wells. Fortunately, they weren’t trying to slip anything past anyone, although Teraeth certainly could have managed it if he’d wanted. The group was escorted past extraordinary, intricate illusions layered over interiors that were in and of themselves astonishing works of art.

Finally, they found themselves, still under heavy guard, in a waiting room while one of the vané left to announce them in the throne room.

“That could have gone worse,” Teraeth murmured.

Xivan nodded tightly. She looked like she kept expecting Talea to be there and kept being upset when that proved not to be the case.

Janel didn’t say anything. Neither did Talon. There were still too many things that could go wrong, and the palace didn’t feel like a sanctuary for any of them. This was no time to lower one’s guard.

That feeling was only exacerbated when the doors opened. A slew of diplomats, courtiers, and dignitaries were firmly, quickly escorted outside, muttering their protests about the indignity of it all. Someone had just ordered the court emptied.

Emptied of threats—or witnesses.

“You may enter,” a herald called to them.

Janel took Teraeth’s arm and led him into the audience chamber.

It didn’t look exactly the same as the last time she’d been there. Some of the decorations had been changed or removed—more obvious, fantastical illusions were visible than the last time too. That was largely because the illusions supporting the Manol vané craftsmanship accentuated it instead of hiding it. Now carved wooden walls were allowed to show their natural beauty, the illusions creating bas-relief bees that flitted from marquetry flower to flower, swaying in imaginary winds. The sprouting trees were real, but the stars and universes sparkling from the depths of their leaves were not.

And sitting on the throne at the end of the hall was a beautiful, black-skinned Manol vané man.

Teraeth.