Dark Immolation Page 20

  There was silence. Knot, she knew, was still getting used to this whole communication-through-the-Void thing, and she was obviously not making things any easier.

  “Sorry,” Astrid said. “It’s just… it’s just strange, traveling alone once more.”

  “Sure.”

  Astrid took a deep breath, calming herself. “Okay, nomad,” she said. “What is the next part of the plan? You wanted me to come here. What now?”

  “Find out about House Storonam,” Knot said.

  “Okay,” Astrid said. “I presume this is something to do with Elessa. Anything specific?”

  “Her family is not in power anymore. See if you can find out why.”

  “What does this have to do with your sifts, nomad? Why will this information be helpful to you?”

  There was silence at the other end again. Astrid waited patiently.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Knot said eventually. “I just… it’s a place to start, I guess.”

  Astrid frowned. She’d been afraid of this. “And what happens when I find out about Storonam?” she asked. “That won’t take me long.” She had already ingratiated herself among the people at the inn. She did not imagine it would take that long to do so with the nobility.

  “Ingran and Faria Storonam were killed a couple of years ago. See if you can find out the circumstances of their deaths.”

  Now it was Astrid’s turn to hesitate. “They were killed?” she asked, after a moment. “By whom?”

  “I have my suspicions,” Knot said. “But I need confirmation. Find out, and get back to me. If you can’t find out anything about the Storonams, see if you can contact the local Nazaniin cotir.”

  “I think the last thing we need is another bunch of psimancers—”

  “They’re the only ones who might be able to help me, if Jane’s healing really is starting to fail. Use them as a last resort, but use them if you have to.”

  Astrid sighed. “Very well, nomad. Your wish is my command.”

  Knot said nothing to that.

  “How are you doing?” Astrid asked. “Any more episodes? Assassination attempts?” Knot had told her about the incident before Jane’s speech—and the miraculous healing that had occurred.

  “Neither.”

  “And your concussion? Are you up and about?”

  “Doing well enough,” Knot said.

  Astrid frowned. There was something he wasn’t telling her. “All right,” she said. “Well. I guess that’s it. Anything else?”

  “Not from me.”

  “All right,” Astrid said again. “I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

  “All right,” Knot said.

  “All right,” Astrid said.

  Silence.

  “Good talk,” Knot said.

  “Yep,” Astrid said.

  “I’m going now.”

  “Me too. Bye.”

  * * *

  Astrid eventually made her way down to the common room, where Sandea was waiting for her.

  “Oh my,” Astrid said, “I hope you’ve not been waiting for me this whole time.”

  Sandea inclined her head. “Our only objective is your comfort, Miss Oroden. Please, let’s have a meal.”

  Astrid obliged, following Sandea to the end of one of the long tables. There were a few more people in the common room than there had been before, but it was still far from full. A red-haired fellow was playing the lute near the hearth.

  “Your lutist is good,” Astrid said, nodding to the player.

  “Thank you,” Sandea said. “He’s traveled here from somewhere very far away. It is not often we have someone of his talent at the Ring Finger. He has a strange name, though. I can’t quite pronounce it.”

  Astrid nodded, watching the lute player. His fingers seemed to glide across the strings; the melody he played was both haunting and yet, somehow, lovely.

  “We haven’t got much on the menu tonight,” Sandea said, taking the seat across from Astrid. “Just a veal stew, bread and cheese. I don’t suppose you take wine?”

  Astrid raised an eyebrow at the woman.

  Sandea laughed. “I joke, of course.” She signaled one of the servers, and ordered two bowls of stew and a cheese platter. “So, what brings you to Turandel, Miss Oroden? Someone of your fame can’t have much to do here. Are you passing through?”

  These were valid questions, for which Astrid had any number of canned responses. Knowing the right one to give was vital, but Astrid had not yet discerned Sandea’s intentions, or what she thought of Astrid—or Lucia, rather—in general.

  “Yes and no,” Astrid responded. “I’m currently writing a treatise on Khale’s western coast, from the Great Western Gulf to the Sorensan Cliffs.”

  “Is that so?” Sandea asked. She returned Astrid’s gaze easily, without challenge. Without overt challenge, anyway. “It sounds fascinating.”

  Astrid nodded, although again she caught Sandea’s sarcasm, just barely hinted at, beneath the word “fascinating.”

  “It is fascinating,” Astrid said, somewhat defensively. Although why she would be getting defensive about a fictional treatise, she didn’t know. “Khale’s western coast is full of unusual flora and fauna. The iridescent sea-life in the Great Western Gulf, the vicious eagles at Gurn’s Point, and, of course, the giant coastal trees between Turandel and Tinska, to name only a few.”

  Sandea nodded, and for the first time Astrid thought Sandea might be impressed.

  “Have you seen these coastal trees before?” Sandea asked.

  Astrid had indeed seen them before, when she spent time in Turandel years earlier, but she couldn’t very well tell Sandea that.

  “I haven’t,” Astrid said. “Which is why I was so looking forward to this trip.”

  “And you’ve been to all the places they say?” Sandea asked. “Cineste? Maven Kol, even?”

  Astrid laughed. She had, but it did no good to say so in this situation. “Cineste, yes. Maven Kol, no. I’m only thirteen, I can’t have traveled that much. I haven’t had the time.”

  “Thirteen?” Sandea said, her voice bordering on shrill. “I thought you were younger than that.”

  Astrid smiled, shaking her head. Of course her body was younger, but this was all part of her ruse. She tapped her head. “I know I look young for my age. What I lack in size I make up for with intellectual acuity.”

  “So it would seem,” Sandea muttered.

  Astrid nodded distractedly, but had lost all interest in Sandea, in anything else at all.

  Olin Cabral had just entered the Ring Finger Inn.

  Shit.

  He was tall, smiling, and unnaturally attractive. The square jaw, the dark eyes, the smooth skin of his face practically glowing. Olin Cabral’s beauty did not seem natural; Astrid had never thought so. His golden-blond hair was worn longer now, almost to his shoulders; the last time Astrid had seen him it had been cut short. But that only made him more pretty. He wore well-tailored clothing, not as elaborately decorated as a nobleman’s, but clean and well made.

  Shit, shit, Astrid thought. How did he find me?

  A dozen greetings were called out at Cabral as he walked across the common room. Still popular. Still well liked.

  This was not good at all.

  Cabral walked right up to Sandea. He greeted her with a smile that could light the dark.

  “Sandea, how are you, darling?” Cabral’s voice, a high, melodious tenor, was almost as intoxicating as his looks. And the man could sing, too. Astrid had heard him do so, and the sound’s beauty was potent enough to impregnate anyone who happened to hear it.

  “Oman, welcome.” Sandea smiled, standing, and she and Cabral kissed one another on both cheeks; the greeting was customary in southern Khale, and the nations of Alizia and Maven Kol. Strange to see it this far north, though. Another affectation Cabral had developed, apparently.

  Oman? Astrid thought. A new name. She wondered how he managed such a thing, in the same city, so soon.

 
“Oman Cabral, this is the child-explorer, adventurer, and scholar, Lucia Oroden,” Sandea said, indicating Astrid.

  Astrid stood, smiling, though her eyes never left Olin—Oman, whatever he called himself now.

  Olin’s smile widened. “You don’t say! The famed child-scholar, Lucia Oroden, in our humble city? What a day this is, indeed.”

  Sandea looked at Olin, her brow creased. “You… you’ve heard of this girl?”

  Olin laughed, throwing his head back. “Have I heard of her? This is the girl who has traveled the Sfaera, seen things many men many times her age have never seen, with an intellect that rivals the sharpest minds in the Citadel!” Olin snorted, looking at Sandea. “Are you saying you haven’t?”

  Sandea was looking at Olin, eyes narrowed. As much of a problem as Olin’s presence presented, Astrid was enjoying seeing Sandea forced to acknowledge the legitimacy of Astrid’s false identity.

  “Well, I… I mean, I may have heard rumors, but I never expected… I never thought…”

  Olin laughed again. “You never thought they were true? Well of course they are; you can see for yourself.” Olin knelt, taking Astrid’s hand in his own. The touch sent a toxic rush through Astrid’s body; it took every bit of control she had not to shudder at the sensation. Instead, she focused on Olin’s eyes, looking into them intently.

  “My lady,” Olin said, kissing Astrid’s hand. Astrid felt sick. “You must do me the honor of dining with me and mine. To hear your stories, where you’ve been, what you’ve done, would be a pleasure indeed.”

  “I…” Astrid was unable to continue. There was no recognition in his eyes, no sense of what had once been between them. There was a part of Astrid that wondered whether this was not the Olin she knew after all—perhaps it was some relative, or even someone else entirely.

  But those dark eyes couldn’t lie to her. And he knew Astrid’s cover story too well.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Sandea said, and Astrid felt the woman’s arm around her shoulders. “Lucia has been through some… some difficulties, lately.”

  “Oh no,” Olin said, his face falling. He stood. “My condolences, little one.” He rested a hand on Astrid’s shoulder, and again Astrid had to resist the urge to shrug it off, to slither away from it as quickly as she could. “But you must come and dine with us,” Olin said. “We absolutely must hear of your adventures. When will you come?”

  Astrid swallowed hard. She was unsure how to respond. “I…”

  Surprisingly, the relief came from Sandea. “As always, your kindness is greatly appreciated. We will get back to you about the dinner appointment. For now, I think this girl needs to rest.”

  Olin nodded, flashing his smile once more. “Of course,” he said. “Please contact me as soon as possible. I will await your response.” Then, with a twirl of his cloak, Olin turned and left the inn.

  Sandea sighed, and sat back down across from Astrid. Astrid, waiting until Olin had left, until she was sure he was gone, eventually followed suit.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Sandea said, reaching across the table and putting her hand on Astrid’s.

  Yes, Astrid thought, her view of me has certainly changed.

  “Oman Cabral, while generous and usually kind, can be a bit insensitive.”

  “You… you know him well?” Astrid asked, still watching the door.

  Sandea snorted. “Better than I’d like,” she said. “Oman is good for business, even his presence helps our inn. But there are things about him… things I don’t trust.”

  Astrid found herself nodding. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I feel the same way.”

  “Although the fact that he invited you to his residence is a great honor. Very few, other than those close to him, get to see the inside of Oman Cabral’s home.”

  Astrid swallowed. Why could she not tear her eyes away from that door? “Must I go?” Astrid asked.

  “I… I don’t know,” Sandea said, after a moment. She seemed surprised. “No one has ever refused an invitation from Oman Cabral. Not even a noble would do such a thing.”

  “Then I must attend,” Astrid said.

  “I would, if I were you,” Sandea said. “As odd as he may be, he has done many good things. And he is well-respected; he is a helpful person to know.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Astrid said. Finally, she tore her eyes away from the door. She looked at Sandea, who was staring at her.

  “Are you all right?” Sandea asked.

  Astrid cleared her throat. “No,” she said. The moment she had seen that smile creep across his lips, Astrid had known. This was Olin Cabral. The vampire who had imprisoned her, tortured her, and manipulated her for decades.

  25

  Council chamber of the imperial palace, Izet

  THE LORDS’ COUNCIL CONVENED, as it always did, on the morning of the spring equinox. It met four times a year, once on each equinox and solstice. Looking out the window of the chamber, Daval could hardly believe the equinox had arrived already. Everything that had happened—Grysole’s death, Daval’s ascension to Tokal-Ceno and fusion with Azael—had only happened a few short weeks after the winter solstice. That such time had passed already seemed strange.

  Daval met eyes with Kirkan Mandiat, seated at the head of the room. The Lords’ Council convened in the same chamber as the Ruling Council, but the former had too many members to all be seated at one table, so the lords sat at a scattering of smaller tables. Front and center was the empty throne, and the large table where the members of the Ruling Council were seated. While they would have no vote today, their presence was nonetheless required at such an event.

  Kirkan Mandiat, as the former emperor’s First Counselor, would take charge of the meeting, but as a member of the Ruling Council he forfeited his vote, leaving Daval one vote behind. Hirman Luce, however, as Second Counselor, would remove one vote against Daval.

  The rest of the Ruling Council—High Priestess Rowady, Watch Commander Kuglen, and Merchant Leader Dagnatar— were all present. The high priestess was the only other member of the Ruling Council who opposed Daval’s ascension, other than Luce. Rowady, of course, did not want the leader of the Ceno order on the throne. Daval couldn’t blame her.

  Kuglen was easily swayed, and had supported Daval’s cause without hesitation. Mandiat had assured Daval that the merchant leader Dagnatar, after a series of long conversations and a series of even longer payments in gold, would support Daval’s claim, too. The Ruling Council’s support would be paramount. One couldn’t lead without it.

  But, for now, the situation was left up to the lords.

  Unfortunately, no other people were allowed in the council chamber while the Lords’ Council convened, other than a few appointed servants. Otherwise, Daval would have brought Winter. While her presence might not have been productive, he had a new toy, and he wanted to show it off.

  Four sharp knocks pierced the low murmuring of those assembled. Kirkan Mandiat was holding the emperor’s gavel in one hand. The hum quieted, and all eyes turned to him.

  “Lords of the Realm and members of the Ruling Council,” Kirkan said, “we have gathered on this day, the first equinox of the 172nd year of the People’s Age, to answer the question of succession. Our late emperor left a void upon death. Our duty is to fill it, for the good of Roden and her people.”

  “For the good of Roden and her people.” The voices of nearly threescore lords rang through the hall, Daval’s voice among them.

  “We have no other business this day than to find a worthy successor to the throne,” Kirkan continued. “We will first take nominations from the lords. Once we have attained a full ballot of three names, we will entertain discussion of the names listed, and vote. The process will repeat until we have reached a two-thirds majority consensus. Then our new emperor will be sworn in before the eyes of our Goddess, and a new age for the Azure Empire will begin.”

  Daval frowned at the mention of the Goddess. Including Cantic doctrine in their laws had been
a mistake of their predecessors, Daval’s own great-great grandfather having played an unfortunate part in that inclusion. They had shed the beliefs of their ancestors for the religion of their enemies, and not batted an eye. His seat in the Lords’ Council was in the far corner of the back row. An unusual place for a lord with his power, but Daval had requested it, so he could have a clear view of those who spoke. This meant sitting among the less-powerful lords; in fact, the man with whom Daval shared a table, Dren Freysalt, was a lord in name only. He owned only a modest house, and had no bannermen of which to speak. His claim to nobility was heredity; his forefathers had once controlled a large percentage of the western farmlands, but had lost them to other lords in minor disputes. Dren was a smart man, but unmotivated, and had not done much better for his house than his recent ancestors. But Daval did not mind such company. Often, the gossip and secrets passed among the lesser lords were far more important than what was going on among the High Lords. It paid to have a foot in both circles.

  “Let the nomination process begin,” Kirkan said, striking the gavel on the table. “Are there any lords here who wish to nominate someone to the ballot?”

  Gragan Vatster, a lord of middle rank, stood. “I nominate Hirman Luce.”

  Daval was not surprised. House Vatster had been a longtime vassal to Luce.

  Another lord, also vassal to Luce, stood. “I second that nomination.”

  “The nomination has been seconded,” Kirkan said. He looked at Hirman Luce, sitting at his right hand. “Lord Luce, do you accept this nomination?”

  “I do,” Luce said. The man seemed more sober than he’d been at Cova and Girgan’s engagement ball, for the good of all present.

  “Very well,” Kirkan said, nodding. “We will now open this nomination up to discussion.”

  Silence weighed heavily in the room. Unsurprising. Luce was an obvious nomination; no one would be arguing his place on the ballot.

  “Very well,” Kirkan repeated. “With no discussion, we will take it to a vote. All in favor of placing Lord Hirman of House Luce’s name on the ballot, so signify.”