Epilogue

Domin Ghassan il’Sänke was shoved roughly through the doors of the great domed chamber atop the imperial castle at the center of il’Dha’ab Najuum. At present that wide, round space—at least half a stone’s throw across—was empty.

The four imperial guards in their golden raiment retreated outside and, when they shut the huge doors tight, a double boom echoed around him.

Ghassan looked about the mosaic floor. Its polished shapes of colored marble were arranged in a looping, coiling pattern centering upon a single one-step dais three yards in diameter. All of the great chamber was awash with tinted sunlight filtering through a like mosaic of glass panes in the dome above. There was only one other exit: the far doors, of purest ivory slats, with sweeping golden handles as long as his forearms. Beyond those doors would be even more imperial guards than on the route by which he had been brought here.

This was not a place that anyone wished to visit.

Aside from serving as a location where dignitaries met in negotiation with the emperor, it was a place of judgment under the heavens. He was to be judged before the emperor, perhaps for treason—or something worse.

He no longer wore the midnight blue robe of Metaology, for he had been in hiding. His short, dark brown hair with the barest flecks of silver was in disarray: strands dangled to his thick eyebrows above piercing eyes separated by a straight but prominent nose. His borrowed clothing of a plain head wrap, a dusky linen shirt, and dark pants over soft leather boots was little more than that of a wanderer.

When he had been found—however he had been ferreted out—he had not struggled to escape, though he could have. His life might end here in this highest of places, but this was where he needed to be. Among those who might come here, there was one he hoped for . . . as the far doors began to open.

Ghassan il’Sänke dropped to one knee and lowered his head and eyes, but not enough to keep from watching those who entered. First came more guards, a dozen at a count, and then the “sovereign” advisors, but only three of the seven always in residence in the imperial palace.

All were either first daughters or second and third sons of the seven kings of the empire. Calling them advisors was proper, for they were the emissaries of their fathers. They were also hostages to keep the royal houses obedient to the imperial throne. But Ghassan took no notice of which were present as another trio entered under the protection of four more imperial guards.

High Premin Aweli-Jama of the guild’s Suman branch was dressed in gray as premin of Cathology. He was flanked by Premin Wôl’ya and Domin il’Bänash, both robed in midnight blue. That the head of Ghassan’s branch had chosen two metaologers to accompany him showed fear of the one to be judged.

Conjury was preferred among Suman metaologers, versus the preference for thaumaturgy in the Numan branch . . . and both Wôl’ya and il’Bänash were highly skilled.

Ghassan was versed in conjury as well as the forbidden third magic, resurrected in secret by his sect more than two hundred years ago. And it was feared and reviled throughout the known world.

Suspicion of sorcery was certainly part of why he had been brought here. The presence of the metaologers also suggested to Ghassan that judgment might have already been passed upon him.

The next to enter caused him to stiffen in wariness.

Imperial Counselor Wihid al a’Yamin, personal advisor to the emperor, was in his late seventies, but his eyes—and awareness—were still as sharp as a hawk’s. Unlike many who graced the royal court, he always dressed simply, in tan pantaloons and a cream shirt beneath a sleeveless dark brown robe. By his age, his hair must be white, but he always covered it with a red headwrap, echoing colors worn by the guards—as if he fancied himself to be a warrior or wished to give that impression, although he had never served in the military. His face was lined, and he was stooped with age, appearing frail, but Ghassan was not fooled by this. Counselor a’Yamin was one of the most powerful men in the empire.

Ghassan carefully maintained his composure and gave no notice to the rest of the retinue, but the last to enter shocked him. It was not Emperor Kanal’am.

Prince Ounyal’am, firstborn heir of the imperial throne, watched only Ghassan il’Sänke as he alone stepped up onto the dais and stood at its center.

He was small for his people and darker toned in hair and skin than most, and, at thirty-eight years, he had yet to take even a first wife. This was fodder for gossip in an empire mindful of heirs and with kingdoms always vying for the closest tie to the imperial throne over generations. But even the emperor had not sired his first “legitimate” heir, Ounyal’am, until he was fifty-seven, and Kanal’am was now older than most of his recorded predecessors.

Ghassan bowed his head and lowered his eyes.

“How do you account for the unexplained deaths and disappearances within your order?” the prince demanded.

“I cannot, Imperial Highness . . . as yet,” Ghassan answered. “But I assure you that I . . . we . . . will uncover the truth.”

It was a careful half lie. He could account for such deaths—or most of them—and he dared to raise his eyes a little.

The prince still watched him and briefly flipped his right fingers upward without raising that hand.

Ghassan, tall for his people, rose to his feet but remained silent as he waited upon the prince.

“Untrue, great one!” Aweli-Jama suddenly challenged.

The high premin took two steps closer to the dais’s right side and bowed his head to the prince. But his next words were for Ghassan.

“You know more . . . a good deal more!”

As head of Cathology in the Suman branch, Aweli-Jama was elderly, though not too much so. He was reminiscent of a lean and wizened “vizier” pulled from ancient folktales that predated unification and the birth of the empire.

Ghassan remained composed, looking only to the prince. “If I may beg a question, my prince, about the emperor?”

Prince Ounyal’am eyed him coldly. “My father is . . . tired . . . and has left this matter to my discretion. Now, is your high premin correct? What is this I hear of a hidden sect among the metaologers, including you . . . Domin? Is it true that all involved but you are dead?”

Ghassan’s composure began to fracture from within, though he kept his expression and posture relaxed and poised. Who else had been speaking to the prince—or worse, the emperor?

Aweli-Jama would never openly admit to a loss of control inside his guild branch. Although the high premin and all of the premin council had had no knowledge of the sect, let alone its purpose, Aweli-Jama was responsible for all in his branch. He would bear much blame for what had happened, whether he had known or not.

Ghassan would not expose the worst—the unknown part of a nightmare his brethren had faced in their end.

An undead, as invisible as a thought, had escaped them and its captivity. It had killed all of his sect but him, or so it was thought. He had been away when this had happened, and now a monster of a past age was loose among the people . . . within the people.

Ghassan quietly scanned the chamber and all of those present.

The “specter,” for lack of any better term, could not survive daylight without a living host, but so many days and nights had passed since its escape. Deaths in the night throughout the city attested to its survival, but who among the people was not who he or she appeared to be?

It could be anyone while hiding in flesh during daylight.

It could be in this very highest of chambers throughout the land.

The prince let out a heavy sigh, pulling Ghassan’s attention.

“Your premin has demanded a list of your sect’s members,” the prince went on, “those dead and those who might have fled into hiding, like yourself. Yet you remain silent on this. It is a matter of time before an account of those who cannot be found would comprise such a list. Why do you not shorten the effort?”

Ghassan’s tension grew. The answer was why he would not speak—because not all of his brethren might be dead. Of the bodies he had found and left in their hidden sanctuary, upon returning from tracking Wynn Hygeorht into a lost dwarven seatt . . .

One was missing.

“I am waiting for your answer, Domin,” the prince added sharply.

As of yet, Counselor a’Yamin had not spoken, but he listened attentively to every word.

Ghassan tried to calculate a reply to the prince . . . even as he called up symbols, signs, and sigils in his mind’s eye and surrounded them with glowing geometric shapes.

The great doors behind him slammed open.

Before he dared to look back, still holding the patterns shaped in his thoughts, he saw the prince’s eyes widen under a brow creasing in annoyance. It was impudent for anyone to interrupt a specially convened audience of judgment.

When Ghassan dared to look, he was at loss for what he saw.

A contingent of city guards flanked by imperial ones marched through the wide main doors flung open. The lead pair, with swords drawn, dragged in two manacled and gagged prisoners, a man and woman. Of the two, it was the woman who had her arms spread wide and chained to a steel bar spreading out from below her shoulders. A steel cage followed, rolled in after them, and contained a snarling silver-gray wolf too large for its kind. And lastly came a young girl with wide, frightened eyes, and, though she was gagged, her hands were tied in front. She was nearly lifted off her feet as the guards holding her upper arms propelled her in.

But the caged animal caught Ghassan’s attention most of all.

Along with its open growls and stiffened hackles, it glowered at everyone in the chamber. What fixated Ghassan most of all were its narrowed eyes. Above its wrinkled jowls and exposed teeth, those eyes sparked like gems . . . like pale sapphires.

“What is the meaning of this?” Domin Aweli-Jama demanded. “The imperial prince is in private counsel with the guild!”

The contingent never slowed. From among them, one broad-shouldered man wearing the gold sash of the imperial guard quickly bowed once and hurried up to kneel before the dais. The prince stepped forward, though he barely lowered his head as he listened.

Ghassan was close enough to hear pieces of the guard’s rapid whispers.

“Marauders . . . murdered . . . one Captain Samara . . . his crew of the Bashair.”

Imperial Prince Ounyal’am sighed once through his nose, as if he had been interrupted by something he could not ignore. Giving Ghassan no notice for the moment, he straightened in studying the prisoners, and Ghassan carefully turned his head enough to follow the prince’s gaze.

In addition to the city and imperial guards, there were two Lhoin’na—a man and woman—standing back near the open doors. He had rarely seen any with such bright blond hair. Their attire was unremarkable, but both carried swords that he recognized by their hilts.

They were Shé’ith, guardians of the Lhoin’na’s territory, but they were not at all dressed like such. This pair looked more like wanderers, and their clothing did not appear cut properly for them.

A disgusting man with a protruding belly and greasy hair pushed between them into sight.

Still on one knee, the guard before the prince spun around. “My imperial highness, these two of the Shé’ith have been tracking the offenders since they left Drist, and this captain”—he gestured to the foul-looking man—“assisted them in arranging capture.” The guard spun back, bowing his head. “Forgive the intrusion, I beg you, but since this involved official guardians of another nation, I felt obligated to bring this to your attention.”

The prince said nothing and only lowered his eyes slightly, perhaps in looking at the man and woman tossed to the floor in their bondage.

Ghassan thought he saw the prince’s eyes widen slightly, but before he could turn and follow that gaze . . .

“Lock them away,” said Counselor a’Yamin quietly, “and turn them over to my jurisdiction.” His voice was as clear as his eyes.

“The counselor is correct. Lock them away, Imperial One!” Aweli-Jama begged. “They may be more dangerous than mere murderers and marauders. Please. . . . Lock them away!”

Ghassan disliked his high premin, but he had never seen Aweli-Jama turn so quickly emotional and with such urgency. Did he know something more about these prisoners . . . or did he simply wish to turn attention upon a guild branch tainted with conspiracy somewhere else?

“Forgive me, my sovereign.”

At the corpulent captain’s interruption, Ghassan glanced back.

“For the risk and cost, but not for doing my duty,” the captain went on, “would there be some . . . reward?”

Ghassan’s mouth soured at such greed. The prince could be far more generous with the people than his father had been, but he did not like impudent attempts at obligation. Then Ghassan noticed Aweli-Jama still stared at the prisoners in almost open fear, and Ghassan finally gave his full attention to those prisoners.

One was male, obviously Lhoin’na, though the structure of his face—his ears—was not quite right. Half-breeds were nearly unheard of, and this one was darker skinned than most of his kind, as were the two Shé’ith, now that Ghassan considered on this.

He looked to the woman bound with the steel bar.

She was beautiful in a barbarous way, though clearly in need of a bath, as was her companion. She was as pale as he was darkly tanned—perhaps too pale—and her black hair glimmered with strands of dark red under the light of the glass dome.

There was something familiar about her, though Ghassan was certain he had never seen her before. And when he looked again to the wolf in the cage and met its crystal-blue glare, something sparked in his thoughts.

No, he had never seen this group, but he had read of them.

Ghassan had done his best to memorize every critical passage from Wynn Hygeorht’s journals, which he had been able to gain access to during his stay at the Numan branch. In particular he had focused most on anything concerning her travels on the eastern continent. The recognition of these three brought him no peace or comfort as his gaze returned to the pale, black-haired woman.

There were other unwritten things he knew.

There were words written only in thoughts, recorded in ensorcelled memories among his sect, to keep them from prying eyes.

And yet the pawn in the war to come had been moved into the open too soon . . . and captured.

A dhampir crouched in bondage before the imperial prince.

Ghassan barely suppressed panic as he looked to Prince Ounyal’am. The prince only stared at the woman whom Ghassan recognized from Wynn’s journals as the one named Magiere. He quickly finished the last of his spell.

Have you snuck into my thoughts yet again . . . Domin? Do you see what has happened?

And now that he had, Ghassan lowered his gaze before his focus might be noticed by others.

Yes, my prince.

True to Ghassan’s mentoring, the prince never revealed anything in his expression.

Then flee now . . . before I am forced to take your life.

Domin Ghassan il’Sänke did not reply in word or thought. The next forms and signs and sigils filled his sight as he looked down upon the mosaic floor and thrust against it with his whole will. He shot upward, quickly covering his head.

The impact shattered the glass dome amid shouts and screams from the imperial court.

Ghassan’s wits dulled as the bright blue heavens grew suddenly dim before his eyes.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 862