Dark Vengeance (9 page)

Perhaps they considered a Nifl-she who oversaw mere yeldeth slaves was beneath answering.

Vaeyemue smiled a crooked smile, and lashed out to crack her whip around the ankles of the largest, surliest-looking rampant. Time to teach this lot of rampants a thing or two—and terrify the new Hairy Ones while she was at it.

Besides, she was bored, and she hadn't enjoyed a big, strong rampant on his knees weepingly begging her forgiveness in too long a time.

Last shift, at least.

To the tune of the rampant's startled yell, her crooked smile widened.

 

“The proverbial stench of magic fills the air,” Opaelra murmured, not caring if the nearest warblades heard her. “Pity it smells like ashes—and strong oldworms cheese.”

The old crone managed a smile, wondering idly if she'd live to see another feast in House Evendoom. The shaking fits took her often, now, and without warning—and as far as she knew, she'd lived longer than any of the Evendoom blood in all the long history of Talonnorn.

Warblades of the house in full battle-armor, standing rigidly at their guardposts, stared at her stonily as she shuffled past them. Opaelra gave them a disapproving look and a snort of dismissal. New ways were well enough, but a little respect for elder kin,
please.

Or House Evendoom would be no better than all the rest, much as that would annoy young Jalandral.

Ah, pardon: young
High Lord
Jalandral.

Opaelra wondered briefly what Klaerra thought of him, under the insistent velvet assault of his lovemaking. Or did they couple, anymore? After all, Jalandral could have his pick of all the shes in Talonnorn—though if he didn't tie them down and have a spellrobe
or three cast spells over each and every one, that would be a swift way into the jaws of treachery, and his own death. Yet perhaps he dared not taste Klaerra unless she was tied down, either . . .

These idle thoughts took her along the mirror-polished tiles of the new passage and into the gigantic new hall that had been built onto the battle-ravaged front of the Eventowers. His “throne room,” Highest and Mightiest Jalandral had presumed to call it.

Hmmph.

When
she
was his age, being Lord of Evendoom and having an audience room was grand enough. Back then, everyone knew the Lord of the Doomhouse was the true lord of all Talonnorn, anyway; there was no need to loudly proclaim it and waste a lot of slaves on too-large and tasteless rooms to prove to everyone what they already knew.

Someone she knew was standing in the vast, gleaming expanse of tiles inside the throne room, waiting for her.

Someone not nearly as old and bent and huddled into her robes as she was: Baerone, a crone of House Raskshaula who was barely older than Jalandral.

Which probably meant that Lord Morluar Raskshaula was in attendance at the High Lord's first Court.

“Ho
ho,
” Opaelra said, a little too loudly. “
This
ought to be good.”

How would these glossy new tiles look, she wondered, with blood all over them?

 

“I thought I had more sense than to let you talk me into coming here,” Naersarra of House Dounlar murmured. “This is no safe place for Consecrated of Olone.”

“True,” Auree agreed, “but if Jalandral dares make a move against us, we have a surprise ready for him. One that's apt to be fatal.”

“For us, or for him?”

“For us all,” Quaera murmured. “Which at least will mean he perishes, spectacularly, and so Talonnorn is delivered from the sin—the utter folly—that he has offered it. No High Lord should ever rule the City of Spires; it is the very tension between temple and House crones, and between House and House, that keeps the city strong and alert and ever-striving.”

“I wish—” Naersarra hissed, unshed tears gleaming in her eyes. “I just
wish
you were right. For my part, I fear that particular sin is not so easily eluded. Now that he has built the door and shown it to us all—and we Consecrated remain in disarray—stone-headed rampant after stone-headed rampant will set himself up as High Lord, no matter how swiftly and surely we fell or humble all previous High Lords. All will see themselves as stronger, or more cunning, or at least less foolish and more worthy than their failed predecessors.
All
of them. They have seen their chance, now, and will not be denied it.”

Huddled in their dark robes, shrouded in their cloaks up to their chins, the four priestesses stared back at her grimly. None welcomed her words, but not one denied them.

Auree, Quaera, Zarele, and Drayele had rarely been parted from each other in all the time since Ouvahlor bloodshed had come to the temple, and they all openly wore scars from that battle; none of them had prayed to Olone to be made unblemished again.

Naersarra knew it was because they did not want to forget how violently life in Talonnorn had changed, and how wrong or mistaken Talonar worship of Olone must have become. Yet she also knew how blindly many Talonar saw matters; many of the surviving older crones of all Houses regarded the four as “gone-oriad,” and as blasphemous to the Goddess in their madness as any priestess-butchering House warblade.

Most Talonar saw not Olone, but only the rules and customs of Olone, to be clung to blindly no matter what befell.

Even if dangerously mad young House heirs reached higher, and styled themselves High Lord of all the city, and slaughtered every true and loyal Talonar who stood in their way.

She sighed, then lifted her chin and said, “We should go in. He won't wait to begin the butchering if we're not standing there to witness it; he wants to show everyone he's
not
beholden to Consecrated of Olone, remember? He'll start without us.”

“He started some time ago,” Drayele murmured bitterly as they started forward in smooth unison, Zarele working the spell that silently moved the doors wide at their approach, when the gleaming battle-armored Evendoom warblades rigidly flanking it made no move to open them.

Quaera felt a glare from one of the guards, and returned it as coldly as only a Consecrated of Olone knew how, flinging the stinging mind-message at him:
The Goddess marks you. See that you please her, if you want her dark regard to fade.

Jalandral Evendoom was the rampant she should have been delivering that threat to—but Jalandral was one of those it would have been wasted on. He obviously believed in Olone not at all.

And, the Ghodal take him, Quaera Thrice-Consecrated was beginning to believe the very same thing.

 

The vast and gleaming new throne room was silent—but it was a silence so singing with tension that a shriek would have been lost in it.

Talonnorn was tense with infighting, and every Talonar stared at fellow citizens, keeping their own faces as much like expressionless masks as they knew how. Everyone sought to know just which side everyone else stood on. Though some Nifl would have heatedly proclaimed their own ignorance of just what any “side” stood for, they all knew the underlying truth: the city was being torn asunder between those who sided with Jalandral Evendoom, and those who dared to stand against him. Fear over what he'd do to them, or someone else would do to thwart him, or what would befall all Talonnorn, crawled untrammeled through the darkness inside every mind.

The darkly handsome Lord Evendoom rose from his throne, then, to stand on the broad dais before it looking slowly around at
the many Niflghar ranged along the walls. No one had quite dared to stand in the open space before the throne; its gleaming tiles stretched empty.

“Citizens of Talonnorn,” Jalandral said calmly, the quiet thunder of his tones making it evident magic was carrying his voice clearly to every ear, “be welcome in the
new
Talonnorn. The cleansed, renewed city that will regain the greatness we have lost, in large measure through your willing participation in a shared new vision. A vision we will forge together, ignoring tradition in favor of doing what is
right.
We have found folly in the past largely because everyone did as they pleased, defying all other Talonar as they sought to practice their own supremacy. So that shall not continue;
I
shall be the ultimate authority, and to defy my decree shall be to die or cease to be of Talonnorn. Yet I do not intend that this—”

He turned to wave leisurely at the throne behind him. “—shall become a tyrant's throne. My decrees shall be rooted in what we decide here together, after all Talonar who desire to be heard have been heard. What my word shall exterminate is the never-ending dissent of the past, the habits we all fell into of denying and working against policies, stances, and even laws we did not personally like. When a matter is settled, it is settled, and we shall move on. We can revisit matters in debate, but outside this hall, we act without hesitation or defiance in accordance with my standing decrees. Holy Olone speaks to me personally, often and with great clarity, so I shall accept disobedience, defiance, or empty corrections from no priestess of the Talonar temple of the Goddess or any other. In this place, we shall use no magic—”

Half a dozen priestesses exerted their wills upon the spells already awake around them; magics that thrust gently at the High Lord of Talonnorn, revealing his glowing personal shieldings for every eye to see.

“—except the magics
I
employ,” Jalandral added calmly, sounding completely unperturbed. “Our only weapons here shall be our voices, our reasoning, and the laws of Talonnorn. Laws that shall
be amended as we commonly see fit, henceforth. I am not going to begin any nonsense of asking every Talonar or visitor to discard every last dagger at the doors, but hear me: except as weapons are drawn at
my
bidding or with my express permission, to wield any weapon in this hall is to forfeit one's life.”

“This decree is unlawful,” a voice interrupted calmly, “and thus as empty as the prohibition on magic you uttered just previously. Not a good beginning, Jalandral, unless you mean to be a tyrant over us all the while you loudly insist you are no tyrant. Talonar are not
fools,
Lord Evendoom.”

“Stand forth!” Jalandral snapped.

“My words have already accomplished that,” Lord Morluar Raskshaula replied, lifting a hand to indicate the swift movements of Talonar standing around him to take themselves hurriedly elsewhere and leave him standing alone on the tiles. “Orders are precious things, Jalandral. Use them more sparingly. Bluster less. With every blustered order you hurl, a little of your respect goes with it.”

“I thank Lord Raskshaula for his wise advice,” Jalandral replied silkily, “even if it comes from the only lord of a House of Talonnorn to have retained his life and title through all the bloodshed that so humbled our city. Tell me, my Lord of Raskshaula, how exactly were you defending Talonnorn then?”

The old noble smiled.

“I was fighting at your father's side against treachery within our own Houses, inside the temple, and in the streets. And wondering, as we did so, the same thing your father was wondering: where were
you
then, Jalandral?”

“I very much doubt that is any of your business, Raskshaula,” the High Lord snapped, “and I—”

“Have just made
another
mistake, young Jalandral,” the noble drawled, the same magic that Jalandral was using carrying his calm voice to every ear. “On the one hand you promise Talonnorn you'll be no tyrant, and make decrees only after debate here in
your bright new throne room—and it
is
a very nice room, mistake me not—and on the other hand you immediately presume to decide what is, and what is not, the rightful business of a citizen of Talonnorn, the moment such a citizen tries to engage in debate. You sound very much like a tyrant to me, Jalandral—and although I may be as old and decadent and foolish as you're about to try to portray me, my own follies don't matter. My perceptions
do,
just because I am a citizen. It matters not what you do or how you do it; what matters is what citizens
perceive
of your deeds and ways. I believe that the very
least
you can do, as High Lord of Talonnorn, is to let citizens of Talonnorn decide for themselves what is, and what is not, their business.”

The air around Lord Raskshaula flared and crackled in a sudden swirling of sparks and stillborn flames, then . . . that fell away to leave the old noble smiling. “Attacking me with magic for
disagreeing
with you, Jalandral? Oh, tyranny indeed! Your father would be more than disappointed in you. He would be disgust—”

“Enough!”
Jalandral Evendoom roared, loudly enough that the ongoing farspeech magic made his shout deafen every suddenly ringing ear, and even caused dust to swirl down from the vaulted ceiling and drift through the air. “You seek to prevent matters of governance from even being discussed, sly traitor, and falsely accuse me of—”

“Nothing,” the old lord replied grimly. “I accuse you of nothing falsely. Every eye here saw your spells rage against my shields. You seek to slay me in front of everyone and then prate of treason, without even bothering to gain the approval of all these gathered priestesses and nobility first. You are worse than a tyrant, young Evendoom; you are a hot-tempered,
impatient
tyrant. Who will bring woe to Talonnorn, not greatness, if—”

“Enough, I say!” Jalandral snapped. “I
will
have order! Lord Raskshaula, your falsehoods demean and frustrate the lawful governance of Talonnorn, and I demand you withdraw them! Or depart this place and this city, forevermore!”

“And if I neither withdraw nor depart?” the old noble asked
calmly, drawing his sword and glancing along the glimmering length of its blade. “What then?”

“I shall have you put to death,” Jalandral snapped. “No longer will any decadent noble frustrate matters in this city, nor work treachery among us!”