Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (12 page)

“Not only do you summon me like some page, but you ask me to anger the Red Sorceress? Have you lost your mind?”

Einin considered the question, having asked herself the same thing many times. A year spent cooped up in a tower with a newborn had left her desperate for human contact. She didn’t speak the language, and no one would help her with the most basic things. She needed sleep. She needed a real conversation. And she needed someone to take the threat of invasion seriously.

“I can manage lands. I can improve them, earn my way.”

“I won’t buy you a bolt-hole.”

“My family owned lands.”

“That life is gone. You cannot keep the Reborn in a private keep even if you could afford the men to guard it, which you can’t; it would anger the nobles.”

“Would any of them take me in?”

“Why would they risk angering the king or Dura?”

Einin grimaced and crossed her arms. She stepped away to clear her head. Annrin spoke down to her, and she took a calming breath. Everyone wanted to protect the Reborn. That gave her leverage. However, she had to tread carefully because she didn’t understand the politics. She assumed Dura served King Samos in much the same way that Annrin did. Einin thought of Dura as an advisor, but Annrin spoke of her as though she were a queen.

Einin said, “People will take risks to be Marah’s benefactor.”

“You might leave this tower, but Marah won’t. Don’t do this again. If you invite me, do it in your name, not Dura’s.”

“I apologize if I embarrassed you.”

“It’s not embarrassment.” Annrin struggled to talk. “The nobles do not like things they don’t own, like the rangers and the sorcerers. The shifting loyalties of the mercenaries infuriates them. If it looks like the king and the Red Tower are working together too closely, it causes problems. It angers the wrong people.”

“But you do work together.”

“Discretely.”

“I need someone who is discrete, who speaks Nuna and Kasdin.”

“Tyrus speaks Nuna fine.”

“He is more prisoner than I. Everyone wants to cut off his head.”

“You cannot learn the language if you do not practice.”

“All I do is practice. The language makes no sense. Syllables dropped depending on the sounds before and after them. What is the point of an alphabet if you ignore it half the time?”

“Nuna is the language of Cadgar Foespear.”

“I need a place of my own.” Einin spoke from her heart, and Annrin’s coldness melted a little. “I’m tired of this cage. I’m tired of lessons and lectures. I attended an empress, and here I change diapers. I can do more.”

“I must go. You are safe here, and things will get better.”

Einin carried Marah out to the ramparts and studied the horizon. As Marah grew bigger, the child attached to her hip. Climbing all the stairs became a chore. Einin had to admit that she had been a soft and spoiled noblewoman, but now she had the legs of a farmhand. No one could see the shape of her calves under her dress, but they had filled out.

Tyrus stood at the ramparts with his eyes closed. A strange hobby, listening to the mountain wind, but he was a strange man. Einin reminded herself not to underestimate him. She approached, concerned about startling him, and dismissed the silly thought. With all his runes, he had to know he wasn’t alone.

Tyrus asked, “How is the little one?”

“Grows more stubborn by the day. Hates naps.”

“She is Ishma’s child. That woman made an art of stubbornness.”

“Dura says she is more like Azmon, too clever to be left alone.”

“The rune blocks?”

“You know about them?”

“Not much, but Azmon had a knack for them when he was younger.” Tyrus brushed a strand of Marah’s hair out of her face. The wind whipped it back around, and he pushed it aside again. “I had hoped she would not be a sorcerer. Some of the Reborn aren’t.”

“I didn’t know they had toys.”

The wind replaced the conversation. Einin endured the chill as she sought a way to ask Tyrus what they were doing. They had to plan an escape, but she feared his oaths. If Dura took Marah away, Tyrus would follow the child.

“How is your Nuna coming along?”

“Dura makes me read Cadgar Foespear.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Have you read him?”

“No. He talks pretty about war; everyone quotes him, but I doubt he ever fought. People that have fought don’t talk like that.” Tyrus backed away from the ledge, breathing heavily. “You could do worse than Dura teaching you.”

“She has no titles.”

“Neither do you.” Tyrus raised his hands. “Neither do I. Not here.”

Einin had served Empress Ishma, the woman who had stood beside Emperor Azmon when they conquered the continent of Sornum. The Five Nations bowed before them. Dura, by comparison, was a commoner with a talent for sorcery but no titles. In Narbor, sorcerers of royal blood held important positions. Commoners were kept at an apprentice level.

Einin said, “In Narbor, she would never be a master.”

“She has tutored kings and emperors. I think she can teach you.”

“I want to be free of this place.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

“I know; the wilderness is dangerous.”

“No. Dura plans to travel into the Deep, to talk to the dwarves about opposing Rosh.”

“What language do they speak?”

“Gimirr.”

“Do you speak that?”

“No. If you struggle with Nuna, Gimirr will drive you mad.”

“Brilliant.”

“They speak Nuna fine.”

“But not Kasdin?”

“Some might; continents mean little when you live under the oceans.”

That gave Einin pause. The idea of cities underneath the oceans was too big to imagine. As her gaze swept across the horizon, she wondered how many warrens the dwarves had. Digging into the ground, they could fill the world with their race. The mountains, and all that they hid, made her feel insignificant.

She asked, “Dura means to take us with her?”

“Marah more than us, but I assume we go too. She will try to use the Reborn to goad them into joining the league.”

“And you will follow her?”

Tyrus mumbled something about oaths. He had grown moody of late, and Einin worried about angering him. She could not forget his days as Azmon’s enforcer. When the Prince of the Dawn had wanted nobles removed, Tyrus made the arrests with the Imperial Guard. Once arrested, most prisoners disappeared.

She asked, “What about Marah?”

“You want to go west. Dura says it isn’t safe. And so does Klay.”

“You believe them?”

“The Gadarans pride themselves on defending these ranges. The stories of half-giants and animal men are true. I’ve seen scars on the men. Animal claws. And no caravans come in from the west. There is no travel at all.”

“They let you near the gates?”

“I watch it from here. I don’t understand the politics, but I know the guards’ schedule, and I know the streets. The Gadarans are worse than the Roshan, a handful of families fighting over little fiefdoms.”

“Tyrus, these people don’t deserve our loyalty. We should run while we can and leave them to their fate.”

He held her gaze for a long time, daring her to dream. If he were at her side, she could trust him to hire mercenaries and keep them honest. He understood violent men and spoke Nuna. No one would double-cross the Butcher of Rosh. Her hopes soared until he shook his head.

Einin asked, “What is it?”

“If Azmon claims the White Gate, there won’t be anywhere to hide. The shedim will rule all of Creation. We might… do the most good beside Dura. If she unites the league, we won’t need to run.”

The next day, Einin stood in a room at the base of the Red Tower. Desks had been cleared away, and she twirled for Dura and her students because they draped her in blue silk while a seamstress made last-minute alterations to her gown. Tyrus stood nearby, wearing layers of plate armor in the Gadaran fashion with a blue cloak. He looked ready to lead a charge. Even Marah was swaddled in blue fabric.

“I think I have it,” the seamstress said through a mouthful of needles.

Dura held Marah and gestured for Einin to twirl again. Afterward, she handed the child to Einin and stepped back to study her more.

“Will it please the king?” Einin asked.

“The king doesn’t care about fashion. We seek to appease Bedelia and her war priests. Traditionally, they perform the claiming, and they have petitioned to take Marah from me. Oh, relax, no one is taking her away. As long as I’m alive, she stays in the tower.”

“I thought the claiming was tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, everyone will be drunk and dancing. Today, we make an
entrance
.”

Einin hoped Dura knew her business. Inviting the Butcher of Rosh, and Azmon’s child, to court would cause more problems than it solved. Dura seemed bitter. Einin had been around her long enough to get a sense of her moods, and the tightness in her lips was similar to when she lost a champion on the etching table.

Einin asked, “What is wrong?”

“We are ready to leave.”

“That is a bad thing?”

Dura pointed her staff at her students. “Inform the men that we are leaving.” She waited until her students left. “The league exists in name only. It is a pleasant idea that costs no one gold or men. They will all preen about like fools, making empty pledges. Seeing the Reborn might push them along. Tyrus might convince as well, but on their own, they’ll bicker for months.”

Einin asked, “How long have you been negotiating?”

Dura waved away the question. “I’m tired, very tired, of cajoling nobles into doing what’s best for Gadara. They delay and barter for more runes. They blame their failures on me while all of them build their little armies.”

“Tribal chieftains,” Tyrus said.

Dura nodded, but Einin didn’t understand.

Tyrus told her, “In Rosh, the Imperial Guard are professional soldiers. Here, the champions are more like the clansmen, following the strongest or wealthiest leaders. They pledge to nobles who pledge them to the king.”

“The king asks for warriors?”

“Oh, he can conscript them,” Dura said, “but he wants volunteers, and the nobles wait to see which families offer the most men. It is a game of sending some to war but keeping the best at home for feuds.”

Einin said, “But Azmon will come for them next.”

“So I’ve told them, but these are old traditions.” Dura headed for the door and gestured for them to follow. “Come, we make an
entrance
. Another tradition. Follow my lead, and speak when I tell you to.”

Einin asked, “This is how you fight wars?”

“This is how we afford them—spread the lost gold and sons among the most families. The biggest families stay big by sacrificing less, and the smallest ones struggle to survive.”

They followed Dura out of the tower into the crisp mountain air. Clear skies hinted at another cold night. They marched down staircases into the upper levels of the fortress. Dura’s staff struck stones, marking a cadence. Tyrus and Einin flanked, and a procession of mercenaries and sorcerers followed. Their party, totaling twenty-one people and a baby, snaked its way from the tops of the fortress through the many staircases and hallways to the king’s throne.

They passed the king’s guards and the Soul of Shinar, knights, champions, and mercenaries clustered in their own little groups, marked by their different armors and weapons. Einin internalized Tyrus’s comments, recognizing the disconnection in the armed men. Each group had different styles of armor and weapons as though Ironwall were a dozen smaller kingdoms. An obvious problem once she knew to look for it, reinforcing her doubts about the city’s defense.

They waited at the throne room for a herald to announce them. Einin shifted Marah from one hip to the other. She had hoped her back and shoulders would stop aching from carrying her around, but the little burden kept growing bigger.

“Watch and learn,” Dura said. “Gadara is not that different from Rosh.”

“I won’t understand what they’re saying.”

“You understand politics. The language will come in time; for now, learn their faces, their personalities, and note their tabards.”

Oak doors, taller than two men, swung open on oiled hinges, and a humid smell rushed out. The throne room, a large space with vaulted ceilings of gray stone, burst with people, colors, armors, silks, and textures. Einin saw guards in steel suits and women in flowing gowns and men in flashy outfits meant to pass as military in style but comical if worn in a real fight. They followed Dura to the throne, adding more bodies to the cramped space.

She had nothing to fan herself with. That had never been a problem in the tower, with all the wind and the chill nights, but she was self-conscious of the blue silk she wore. The gown had too many layers. In a crowd like this, she would sweat like a farmhand.

Dura bowed before King Samos, speaking in Nuna, and Einin caught a few words. She bowed when Tyrus bowed and kept a calm face. How could she learn personalities if she didn’t understand the language?