Page 69

CHAPTER

Sixty-Nine

S OME PLACES ARE soaked in power. The ruined city of Samra.

The cave networks of Helia. The House of Mist and Shadows, ancient sentinel of the grey marshes. History, faded to myth and then forgotten, can be lost. But the power remains, steeped into the stone like blood. Do not ask if that power is good or evil. Ask who plans to draw it out and use it.

Neema was at the party, standing alone by the ornamental fish ponds. Empty—which made her feel guilty. She hadn’t meant to poison those poor fish, but still. Their deaths were on her conscience. As if she had summoned her own punishment, her old assistant Generic Arsehole swaggered up to her, drunk.

“So, Lady Neema—what do you plan to do next?”

“Die horribly, I suspect,” Neema muttered.

Janric was already talking over her. “D’you hear the rumour? Emperor Ruko plans to move the court to Samra. And all those boring reforms will go of course,” he waved his hand, dismissing them. “That must be sad for you. It’s like…” A look of consternation crossed his face. He was searching for a simile, but lacked the imagination to find one.

“As if I’d spent years building a palace, only to have someone come along in the night, and knock it down.”

“Exactly!” He pointed at her. “I’m going to use that. You built a palace, and we knocked it down.” A nasty grin. “Everything back the way it should be.”

He walked off. In fact everyone was drifting away, she realised, on some invisible signal. Heading further out into the gardens, towards the promontory. Janric had only come up to taunt her, before joining them.

Everything felt off. This strange, inappropriate party: a jig played at a funeral. The island was being looted, there were troops everywhere, and people were laughing and clinking glasses, and admiring each other’s outfits. She wished Cain were here. He would love this, the perverse idiot.

“Lady Neema, do join us.” Havoc—never far away—had come to gather her up. Instead of leading her out to the promontory, he drew her in, to the small courtyard that lay beneath the throne room’s great octagonal window. Deserted except for Tala, dressed in another of her signature halterneck gowns, cream satin and short this time, showing off her strong thigh muscles. She was peering through the glass, trying to make out what was happening inside.

“Tala.”

She turned at her name. “Neema, thank the Eight.”

They hugged each other, all arguments forgotten. “They’ve taken Fenn.”

“I know.”

Tala drew back, clutching Neema’s wrists tight. Her eyes spoke for her. Thank you. For saving Sunur, and Suru. Thank you. Then she rounded on Havoc. “What the fuck is going on, you absolute prick?”

He lifted his hands, he’d already explained. “We’re celebrating. Why don’t you enjoy the wine…” He gestured to a tray of drinks set out on a nearby table.

Neema found herself measuring the distance, assessing the weight of the table. Did she have the strength to smash it over his head, hard enough to knock him out? Eight she’d love to break his nose a second time. Could Tala run in those strappy sandals? That headband she was wearing—a pair of ox horns shaped in bronze. Were the points sharp enough to draw blood?

The Oxwoman is better with her fists, Neema.

Sol was perched in her chest, in a fluff of excitement. This was his first imperial reception. He had bathed for the occasion in a muddy puddle and come out looking surprisingly sleek and distinguished.

“Lord Ruko,” Havoc said, and gave a deep Monkey salute. “Emperor-in-waiting. Welcome.”

Ruko had entered the courtyard silently, shadowed by his abbess. They were both immaculately dressed—Ruko in a forest-green tunic with gold collar and buttonholes, Rivenna in a heavily beaded, close-fitting hooded dress that shimmered as she moved. The Tiger abbess was lit from within by triumph. Ruko seemed more subdued. But he smiled when he saw Tala, and crossed to her side. Like a bodyguard, Neema thought.

“Is Shal joining us?” she asked.

“Lord Shal is otherwise engaged,” Havoc said.

Neema’s heart sank. She hadn’t realised until now, but she had invested heavily in the idea that Shal was a good man. She needed to believe that there were still some decent Hounds out there, who followed the Code of Ethics, and believed in the Four Tenets. Justice, Order, Loyalty and Honour: the four sides of the silver square. Whatever was happening here tonight, she fervently hoped Shal wasn’t a part of it. If he’d been corrupted, they were all lost.

“I don’t suppose you saw Cain on your way over,” Havoc asked Ruko and Rivenna, a touch of anxiety entering his voice. “The emperor is keen for me to find him…”

Neema enjoyed the matching, scornful look they gave him. Your pathetic failure is of no concern to us.

“Well then,” Havoc said, reddening. “Let us go in.”

“Ah,” the emperor said, as they filed in through the great window. He sat on his white marble throne, not perched on the edge for once, but settled back, comfortable. Relaxed within his power, when it was supposed to be ebbing. He was dressed in his usual black tunic with red slashes. Behind him, moonlight poured through the window, while incense burners oiled the air with a familiar, smothering scent of frankincense and patchouli. At the base of the steps, Vabras stood in his preferred spot.

There was one significant change, and it made Neema’s skin crawl. The Imperial Bodyguards were gone. In their place, Havoc’s squad of Samran Hounds lined the steps, dressed in their blue and silver livery. There was blood on their swords. Something told her it belonged to the guards they had replaced. She looked at Ruko, trying to alert him. His face was a mask.

The emperor frowned as she crossed before him. “Where’s the dress?” he snapped.

“She refused to wear it, Your Majesty,” Havoc said, as Neema replied, over the top, “I ripped it to shreds.”

“Fascinating,” the emperor said, rubbing his mouth as he took in her appearance.

Fascinating was another of those court words, like astonishing, and remarkable, but even worse. Never fascinate an emperor.

Putting his hands on their backs, Havoc pushed Neema and Tala towards the other side of the room, and positioned them carefully in front of the Monkey’s portrait, as if this were a play, and these were their marks.

The emperor’s attention had shifted to Ruko. The Tiger warrior stood in the centre of the room, legs spread wide, hands on his hips. On the ceiling above, the Dragon’s jaws seemed wider than ever, readying to stream down fire.

“Ruko Valit, emperor-in-waiting. Welcome.”

With these few words, the emperor acknowledged the legitimacy of the succession.

Ruko’s shoulders relaxed. He inclined his head in silent greeting, one emperor to another. And Neema thought— Whatever is happening here, Ruko is not a part of it.

“It was a close win,” the emperor said. “Closer than expected. Neema Kraa surprised us,” a crooked smile, “as she often does. You were lucky with the Dragon Trial. But your accession to the throne cannot be denied, or overturned.”

That is a strange thing to say, Neema.

Neema agreed, and so did Ruko by the looks of it. He was about to reply when the doors to the throne room opened wide, splitting the Tiger portrait in two. Kindry Rok bustled through, chest first, followed by Lord Clarion and Lady Harmony, holding hands.

Wandering in behind them, as if by chance: Cain Ballari.

Washed and groomed, he was dressed in a flamboyant, knee-length coat stolen from the imperial wardrobe—black satin, embroidered with orange and white flame patterns. A fresh, black velvet patch covered his eye.

Its eye, Sol corrected, tapping on Neema’s rib. That is not Cain.

“Lord Cain of Scartown,” the emperor said, evidently amused by the title. “We have been looking for you, and your abbot. Where is Ish Fort?”

“Hiding.” The Fox was spinning in languid circles, taking in Shimmer’s portraits of its fellow Guardians. “Oh that’s good. Look at Tiger split in half, how splendid, I should love to split Tiger in half like that.” He turned again, reading the words over the paintings. “SEVEN TIMES HAVE THE GUARDIANS SAVED THE WORLD. Was it seven times, little fragment?”

Yes, Fox, Sol replied.

“Well I shall take your word for it. Bit of a blur, to be honest…”

Havoc was trying to usher what he assumed was a heavily intoxicated Cain to the edge of the room. The Fox evaded him without even noticing, weaving in a dance of blithe, slinky elegance, then stopped in front of its own portrait. Lifting its eyepatch, it waited for the depiction of Cornered Vixen Defending its Cubs to transform into a fresh aspect. The painting remained resolutely as it was. The Fox lowered its patch, disappointed, then pressed its nose deep against the painting, and snuffed. “Smells like home,” it said, and licked the wall. Clacked its tongue, as if it were tasting a fine wine. “Dragonscale.” It tried another patch, licking right across the vixen’s head. “Oh, it’s in the paint, how curious…”

Vabras moved around the back of the throne, unsheathed his sword, and—with a swift, efficient move—knocked the Fox out cold with the pommel. “Watch him,” he said to the nearest Hound, and returned to his place by the throne. The Fox lay still beneath its portrait, one leg bent, one leg straight.

The emperor had turned in his seat to watch this. As he did so, a dagger was revealed on his right hip, sheathed in a simple leather scabbard. Hurun-tooth. The Blade of Peace.

Ruko’s fists clenched as he saw it. “Your Majesty. Only a Tiger warrior may wear the Blade. I demand its return.”

The emperor lifted an eyebrow. “You demand…? It is not midnight yet, emperor- in-waiting .”

Ruko was not deterred. “It was given to me for safekeeping. I swore an oath—”

“Then you should have taken better care of it.” The emperor had unsheathed the Blade. Pressing the tip to his finger, he drew out a bead of blood.

Neema gasped. His hand. His ruined right hand was mended. No one else noticed. They were transfixed by the Blade. The most dangerous weapon in existence. The emperor ran his finger along the pattern etched into the steel. “The next time Hurun-tooth takes a life, the Eight will Return in blood and fire.”

“He’s mad,” Tala whispered.

Ruko could stand it no longer. He moved towards the steps.

Rivenna, stealthy as a cat, came up beside him and pressed her ring to his neck. The needle-sharp fangs stabbed deep into the vein.

A heartbeat, and it was done.

Ruko clutched his neck, and turned to her in shock.

“Numbing agent,” she purred, as the fangs retracted. “You’ll live.”

Whatever she’d used it was powerful, and swift-acting. He sank helpless to his knees at the bottom of the throne steps, head bowed; an unwilling supplicant. Unable to move, unable to speak.

The emperor sheathed the Blade. “Thank you, Rivenna.”

Rivenna kneeled down next to her student, and pressed her forehead to the floor. “It is an honour to serve my emperor.” When she rose, her face was shining with adoration. “The moon rises, my love. Take this gift that I have made for you, and use it as you will.”

This gift…

Ruko. She means Ruko, Neema.

The emperor touched a hand to his heart in gratitude, and—to Neema’s surprise—began to sing. The Old Bear’s deep, rough voice had no music to it, but there was a strange, transfixing power to his words. “Patiently it waits the hours…”

The Song of the Forest. An ancient Ketuan song, long forgotten. She had found it, translated it. Matched the tune to the words for the first time in centuries. For him.

“Strength and grace concealed…”

The air was thickening around her. She felt the words reach inside her, tugging at something buried deep, something that did not wish to be found. A spell song. But not for binding…

Sol shook himself, beak open in alarm. The Soul Stealer.

“A ripple in the long grass…” The emperor was changing before their eyes. The voice was different—smooth and pleasing. Something writhed inside his face, tugging and pulling it into a new, sharper shape. His giant form shrank, his hair darkened to black, streaked with grey. His skin colour changed to a warm, golden brown. “… and a tiger is revealed.”

The song was ended. The Old Bear was gone. And in his place…

A sound escaped Neema’s throat—a dull moan of horror. Here was the man she had served so faithfully for eight years. Here was her emperor. Not Bersun, not Gedrun, but a Tiger, revealed.

Andren Valit. The Great Traitor.

Impossible. Undeniable.

He smiled a beautiful, charismatic smile. Everyone always said, Andren’s smile was his greatest weapon. That you could win a war with that smile.

He rose to his feet, arms wide.

Around her, people were dropping to their knees, heads bowed. Lady Harmony and Lord Clarion, Kindry Rok, the Hounds lining the steps. More than deference, she thought, as Havoc shoved her and Tala to the ground. Reverence. Eight—look at their expressions. They worshipped him.

Tala was crying with shock, hands covering her mouth. “What’s happening?” she said. “What’s happening?”

Neema put an arm around her shoulder and they clung to each other, as if they were caught on a river, smashing through the rapids.

“I don’t understand,” Tala said, through sobs.

“Of course you don’t,” Havoc muttered, behind them. “Oxes. No imagination.”

Kindry was back on his feet, filling his lungs. “All hail His Majesty, Andren the First,” he boomed. “Saviour of Orrun.”

“All hail His Majesty!” The words rang out through the room like a fanfare.

Andren headed down the steps towards his son. No longer with the heavy, world-weary tread of the Old Bear, but light-footed and urbane. Delighted to be himself.

Ruko was trying desperately to fight Rivenna’s numbing agent, sweat pouring down his face. It was no use. He was frozen in place, mouth sealed shut. But his eyes blazed with blind hatred.

Father.

Andren ruffled his son’s hair. “Ah, Ruko. I am sorry, my boy. I know how much you wanted this.” His fingers tangled deeper, pulling Ruko’s head back so he could see the white marble throne above him. He leaned in, playful. “But it was my dream first.”

Ruko stared up at the throne. So close. Even now, he believed he could reach it. Because it wasn’t just a dream. It was a vision. A promise made to him in the temple. In the Dragon flame.

Andren circled round and gripped his son’s shoulders. “You saw yourself up there, didn’t you?” he whispered. “Patience, my son. Patience. All shall become clear.”