The seal wasn’t actually of the Imperial Treasury either: it was a heraldic crest of the sort the noble Houses used in Pallas. He recognised it, too; who wouldn’t?
‘Do you recognise the crest?’ Milius asked.
Seth nodded mutely. ‘Is it . . . genuine?’
‘Of course not! He got hold of it somehow – stolen, most likely. We’ll recover it when we arrest him.’ He held out his hand for the papers and the promissory note. ‘Now, can we agree to this, General, and get on with saving your men?’
Seth bit his lip, looking about him without focusing on anything. My father boasts of never leaving a man behind, but then he’s never lost a battle, so it’s probably never come up . . . And Ramon, the little shit, has been the one who got us out of Shaliyah, and into and out of Ardijah . . . I can’t just hand him over on their say-so. I saw that death-camp too . . .
But he had fifteen thousand lives to protect.
Damn this . . .
Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 929
15 th month of the Moontide
Cymbellea di Regia was curled up in a foetal position when the ground began to tremble. The vibrations shook her back to awareness, though she’d not really been asleep. Part of her was amazed that she still lived and breathed. She’d been helpless in the care of these women for days, too ill and weak from blood-loss to move, her heart torn in two and her brain too numb to grasp the weak straws of consciousness that flowed past.
She looked up at a wizened face so deeply brown it was almost black, one of several women who’d been shielding her from the clamour of the camp. Bunima, a widow from South Dhassa, had held her down, hugged her and whispered calm into her ears while the others pierced her womb and scraped out her unborn child. They’d protected her since, though she was not just of Yuros but a mage; she’d been sure they would just cast her outside the women’s camp to where the circling men were calling for her death. Stones had been hurled into the cluster of women, an indiscriminate rain of rock that had taken lives and broken bones, but the men had not actually dared to enter the women’s camp – she didn’t know why, and she didn’t know why the women were shielding her either. But Bunima with her smattering of Rondian had become her protector and carer, though they couldn’t hold more than a basic conversation.
Only one man had entered: Zaqri , the father of her child. Her dead child. She could still hear his anguished cry as he realised what she’d done: the wail of a sinner cast into Hel. She’d seen him just once since, when he’d told her that he would wait for her recovery, then they would continue their hunt for the Scytale of Corineus. She wondered if he was still holding to that promise. Aborting a child among her people was not unusual; it carried little stigma – but here, it was a deadly sin, though of course it still happened. She knew her action had wounded Zaqri deeply, just as she’d also intended – but there was another reason, equally as pressing: their child was half Dokken, and no one knew what it might have been.
Pater Sol! Mater Lune! Tell me I’ve done the right thing . . .
But as always, there was no answer. Silence is the Voice of God , she’d once heard a priest say.
The old woman said a few words, of which Cym picked out ‘soldiers’ and ‘sultan’ and ‘here’. She did understand that she was in danger if she stayed.
Irrationally, she just wanted to see Zaqri again. The Dokken packleader had saved her, protected her, loved her, and in her mind’s eye he still shone like a god among mortals – but he was a Souldrinker: a cursed demon, and he’d killed her mother. Even though it had been in combat, Rimoni law demanded retribution: she’d killed his child so she wouldn’t have to kill him. It had felt right and just at the time, but now she couldn’t move without feeling the wounds inside her body and her soul.
Pater
‘Do you recognise the crest?’ Milius asked.
Seth nodded mutely. ‘Is it . . . genuine?’
‘Of course not! He got hold of it somehow – stolen, most likely. We’ll recover it when we arrest him.’ He held out his hand for the papers and the promissory note. ‘Now, can we agree to this, General, and get on with saving your men?’
Seth bit his lip, looking about him without focusing on anything. My father boasts of never leaving a man behind, but then he’s never lost a battle, so it’s probably never come up . . . And Ramon, the little shit, has been the one who got us out of Shaliyah, and into and out of Ardijah . . . I can’t just hand him over on their say-so. I saw that death-camp too . . .
But he had fifteen thousand lives to protect.
Damn this . . .
Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 929
15 th month of the Moontide
Cymbellea di Regia was curled up in a foetal position when the ground began to tremble. The vibrations shook her back to awareness, though she’d not really been asleep. Part of her was amazed that she still lived and breathed. She’d been helpless in the care of these women for days, too ill and weak from blood-loss to move, her heart torn in two and her brain too numb to grasp the weak straws of consciousness that flowed past.
She looked up at a wizened face so deeply brown it was almost black, one of several women who’d been shielding her from the clamour of the camp. Bunima, a widow from South Dhassa, had held her down, hugged her and whispered calm into her ears while the others pierced her womb and scraped out her unborn child. They’d protected her since, though she was not just of Yuros but a mage; she’d been sure they would just cast her outside the women’s camp to where the circling men were calling for her death. Stones had been hurled into the cluster of women, an indiscriminate rain of rock that had taken lives and broken bones, but the men had not actually dared to enter the women’s camp – she didn’t know why, and she didn’t know why the women were shielding her either. But Bunima with her smattering of Rondian had become her protector and carer, though they couldn’t hold more than a basic conversation.
Only one man had entered: Zaqri , the father of her child. Her dead child. She could still hear his anguished cry as he realised what she’d done: the wail of a sinner cast into Hel. She’d seen him just once since, when he’d told her that he would wait for her recovery, then they would continue their hunt for the Scytale of Corineus. She wondered if he was still holding to that promise. Aborting a child among her people was not unusual; it carried little stigma – but here, it was a deadly sin, though of course it still happened. She knew her action had wounded Zaqri deeply, just as she’d also intended – but there was another reason, equally as pressing: their child was half Dokken, and no one knew what it might have been.
Pater Sol! Mater Lune! Tell me I’ve done the right thing . . .
But as always, there was no answer. Silence is the Voice of God , she’d once heard a priest say.
The old woman said a few words, of which Cym picked out ‘soldiers’ and ‘sultan’ and ‘here’. She did understand that she was in danger if she stayed.
Irrationally, she just wanted to see Zaqri again. The Dokken packleader had saved her, protected her, loved her, and in her mind’s eye he still shone like a god among mortals – but he was a Souldrinker: a cursed demon, and he’d killed her mother. Even though it had been in combat, Rimoni law demanded retribution: she’d killed his child so she wouldn’t have to kill him. It had felt right and just at the time, but now she couldn’t move without feeling the wounds inside her body and her soul.
Pater
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