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  The porter, who might have actually been a caravan guard, judging by the dagger at his waist, frowned as if greatly put upon. He must have decided arguing wasn’t worth the waste of breath, for he reluctantly slung a carpet over his shoulder and carried it inside.

  “I’ll help out.” Taren handed Gradnik the wand and hoisted the next carpet from the cart.

  “Thank you, lad,” Gradnik said.

  With Taren and the guard both unloading carpets, the whole load was stacked inside within a couple minutes. The guardsman’s mood brightened after being tipped a few coppers, and he wished Gradnik and Taren a good evening before leading the donkey away.

  Taren stretched his back, surprised at how heavy the carpets had been. Now that they were alone inside the shop, he inhaled deeply of the potpourri of scents he loved: candle wax, spices, perfumes, and leather, all overlaying a faint mustiness he associated with the books and scrolls.

  “Look what I found in Carran, lad: a map of Ketania sketched by Vego the Wanderer himself! It dates back about a century, and everything is where it should be, far as I can tell.” Gradnik popped the top off a wooden tube and withdrew a roll of vellum. He spread it out reverently on the free corner of a cluttered table.

  Taren looked it over with awe, marveling at all the fine details used in rendering the map—scores of individual trees lovingly sketched out to denote forests, waves across the bodies of water, mountains and streams, and small detailed towers and buildings for the larger cities. It even had a detailed sketch of a sea monster, its serpentine body coiling around a ship in the middle of the Azure Sea. He sighed, wishing he had coin to purchase such wondrous items. He could imagine himself someday walking the same roads as Vego had a century past, exploring each point of interest noted on the map.

  “It’s a beauty, Gradnik, but I have no coin for something so nice. Bring back any new books from Carran?”

  “Aye, come have a look.”

  Gradnik led him over to a wall of bookshelves, which Taren knew very well. He’d read many of the books on the shelves except for those valuable and rare books that he couldn’t afford and hesitated to even touch, for fear he’d inadvertently damage one. Gradnik often lent him some of the inexpensive books when he knew Taren had no coin to spend, but that night, he had some he’d been saving up for quite a while.

  “I thought mayhap you’d be interested in this little gem.” Gradnik pulled a volume off the shelf, frowning and worrying at a tattered corner before holding it up with a flourish.

  The book was bound in calfskin, which was cracked where the lower corner had been bent, the pages inside creased as a result. The cover was discolored from a water stain across the center. The title, A History of Magic in Easilon, was branded into the calfskin.

  Taren took the book from Gradnik, carefully running his hands along the battered cover. The skin was warped from the water damage, but when he opened the cover, the pages were intact, save for the bent corners. “Translated by Cedrik the Younger, Orialanian Library Scribe,” was written on the first page, along with the scribe’s signature.

  “From the Orialanian Library in the capital of the Nebaran Empire? Where did you find this?” he asked, impressed.

  Gradnik looked pleased. “I had some luck while shopping in the Carran market. A fellow had recently relocated from Nebara, and in a hurry it seemed, for he was desperate to sell this book, along with some sundry items. I thought it might be just the thing for a young lad who dreams of learning magic.”

  “You thought just right.” Taren couldn’t wait to find a quiet place and spend some time reading the book, assuming he could afford it.

  “And this.” Gradnik produced another volume, a less impressive-looking tome. “Sir Roland the Bold’s Big Book of Beasts.”

  The bestiary was more of a journal than an actual volume. As Taren thumbed through it, he noted that Sir Roland’s hand was often illegible, the letters written in a difficult-to-read scrawl. His sketches, frequent and detailed, were much more impressive. A giant spider looked as fearsome as if it would leap off the page and latch its dripping fangs into Taren’s face.

  “Who’s Roland the Bold?”

  Gradnik shrugged. “Some minor knight errant would be my guess. Evidently, he didn’t reach the level of fame and adventure as he’d hoped to. But there’s some good information in there—I thought you’d enjoy reading what he recorded.”

  “Very much so!” Taren pulled out his embarrassingly light coin purse. He emptied a couple silvers and twelve coppers into his hand, his remaining share of the earnings from the last trip to market with Wyat and Elyas. “I’m afraid I’ve not much I can pay you…”

  Gradnik plucked one silver from his hand and left the remainder. “That should suffice—you were quick to pitch in and unload those carpets. More than that sluggard of a guard did. Enjoy, lad. Mayhap I’ll have something more for you to read next time, and you can trade up for something else.” He clapped Taren on the shoulder.

  Taren grinned and clasped Gradnik’s hand, clutching the books to his chest. “Thank you, Gradnik! I’ll be back before then, but I’m looking forward to watching your pyrotechnic show at Midsummer Festival.”

  “Aye, it’s coming up quick, that it is.”

  Taren bade the old shopkeeper good night and made his way toward the Melted Candle. He’d have something to occupy himself with while Elyas and the brothers drank and diced and flirted with the girls at the tavern. A cup of wine and some time spent with his nose in the books was looking like a fine way to spend the evening.

  Chapter 3

  Amralad was a wizened old man, feeble in body, much like the emperor, yet not in his sorcery. Nesnys could sense the wizard’s respectable aura of power. She met him in the antechambers of the emperor’s rooms. According to Zegrath, Amralad rarely left the emperor’s side, whispering in his ear and twisting him to their will. She considered keeping that arrangement in place, once she verified the mage’s understanding of his proper place in the grand scheme.

  “I am honored to meet the Dark One’s champion.” Amralad leaned heavily on his staff and bowed as low as he could manage. “It will be good to have someone with greater vigor and martial vision than Zegrath and I to carry out our lord’s will and lead Nebara to glory.”

  Nesnys nodded curtly to the old mage, taking a moment to scrutinize him. His face was wrinkled, eyes rheumy but sharp with intellect. His arm was a liver-spotted stick grasping the staff, and he stood hunched over. The staff and his person radiated magic, likely from protective spells and such and perhaps some magic items concealed in his robes. Although he might not be entirely sound of body, she suspected he was quite sharp of mind. Unless he proved a problem, she doubted he needed to be physically put in his place as the fat cleric had.

  “Greetings, Amralad. I care naught for Nebara’s glory, only for the glory of Shaol and the successful execution of his will.”

  “You are correct, of course. My apologies for misspeaking.”

  Nesnys waved away his apologies before he could say more. She suspected that, like most learned mortals of venerable age and experience, he was a windbag that liked nothing more than to ramble on and hear the sound of his own voice.

  “I would meet this emperor of yours.”

  “It would be my honor to introduce you.” Amralad shuffled toward the door and, with a minor spell, flung the double doors open dramatically. He gestured toward a huge four-poster bed that could’ve slept a dozen people. Instead, nearly lost amongst the duvets and numerous pillows lay only one sickly old man.

  “Lady Nesnys, allow me to introduce His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Ignatius Isiratu, the Third of His Name.”

  Nesnys strode inside the bedchamber, which was decorated in a rainbow palette of silks and satins. In spite of a magical contraption mounted to the ceiling that moved blades of woven reeds to stir the stifling air in the room, the chamber still reeked of a sickbed. She peered down at the withered emperor of Nebara and was certainly not impressed.
The old man’s eyes were closed, his mouth wide open with a trickle of drool running down his chin. His labored breathing had an unhealthy rasp to it.

  “This is what we have to work with? He could pass into the afterlife at any moment. Where are his heirs? Perhaps better to kill him ourselves and let the successor take over.”

  Amralad stroked his long wispy beard. “The emperor has twelve children, twenty-two grandchildren, and sixteen great-grandchildren. Among them, two of the children are no longer among the living. Four are imprisoned along with their families, including six of the grandchildren, for fomenting a rebellion some years past. The heirs range in ages from sixty-six summers down to four months. I—”

  Nesnys growled in irritation. “I care not for a listing of the lineage. What is the reason for dealing with this decrepit old man and not a more vigorous heir?”

  “Well, his mind is nearly gone. It is but a simple matter to show him the most prudent path in the empire’s decision-making, to stamp decrees in his name, and to run the empire with little to no interference from the messy relations of his heirs. No annoying battle of wills should they grow an independent streak.”

  She grunted in acknowledgment as she considered the benefits.

  “I don’t know you.” The voice was feeble, the emperor squinting at Nesnys with his dark eyes, one of which was covered by a milky film.

  “Your Majesty, let me introduce the Lady Nesnys. She is our newest… military advisor.” Amralad sidled over beside the bed.

  The emperor seemed befuddled a moment, blinking at her. “Surely I’d remember you. Where do you hail from?”

  Nesnys gave him a twisted smile. “A land known as Achronia, Your Majesty.” She bowed gracefully. “I’ve been summoned to restore glory to the empire. We shall do so through our military might.”

  The emperor gave a soft sigh, his eyes becoming unfocused. After a long moment, during which Nesnys was sure he’d either fallen back asleep or his wits departed him, he spoke softly. “I had a dream that all of Easilon should fall under the glory of Nebara. Always Ketania and that damned house of Atreus was too strong, too cunning, always thwarting our moves… for generations, until we signed a truce all those years ago. The realms have been at peace ever since then. You mean to make war on the rest of Easilon?”

  “I do. Your name shall be synonymous with the Golden Age of the Nebaran Empire, when all the lands were brought under one rule as they were always meant to be. The golden lion shall fly over every city from sea to sea.”

  “I like her already, Amralad. Keep her around.” Ignatius the Third sighed and looked around. “Where is Laberia? I would speak with her.”

  Amralad sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “Majesty, your wife passed on ten summers gone. We’ve been over this many a time.”

  Sorrow filled the emperor’s eyes. “Ten summers? It cannot be so! Surely, I would have known that.” He clutched at the sleeve of Amralad’s robes and muttered something to himself.

  “So it goes with the emperor’s fragile mind,” the wizard said, shrugging. “As I mentioned before, it can work to our favor.”

  Nesnys nodded. A weak puppet of an emperor under the control of her and her minions would work well to further their ends. But who shall lead these armies into battle? With all of my tasks, I have not the time to manage a military campaign full time. She would have to ponder that matter. In addition to the war, she had to locate the Tellurian Engine and find the whelp of her hated sister, both of which could be anywhere on the entire plane.

  “Very well. I must go and learn of the military situation. You, Zegrath, and I shall speak more of our plans later.”

  “I look forward to it,” Amralad replied, convincingly enough that Nesnys almost believed him.

  ***

  Nesnys drummed her fingernails on the edge of the mahogany table, impatient with the delays and irritated by the present company. In her shapechanged form, she missed her sharp talons, which could have carved deep gouges in the wood, but she had to make do in that regard as in many others. She slouched back in her chair with her boots atop the table, crossed at the ankles. Also present in the small-council chamber were the wizard Amralad and the priest Zegrath. She longed to leave the palace and engage in battle, to slay and crush her foes and slake her thirst with mortal blood.

  First, I must lay the groundwork. This campaign is in its infancy, and like any suckling, first it must crawl before it can walk. Running will come eventually. Patience was not in her nature, though, and the delays aggravated her, particularly the lack of any military progress. That matter she would deal with shortly. In the meantime, she had been learning all she could of the plane of Easilon—geography, ecology, and political situations—and planning her military strategy and dual-pronged searches. Her research relating to the Tellurian Engine at the Imperial Library had revealed nothing.

  “From the requirements you provided us with, I have an idea that may prove promising, Lady Nesnys.” Zegrath bobbed his head respectfully.

  She glanced at the corpulent priest, who looked like a pale, hairless worm in his black vestments. “What is it?”

  “The empire, back in its former days, a century or two ago, employed a special organization with great efficacy. Known as the Emperor’s Hand, in ancient times termed the Inquisition, the order served as both spies and enforcers of His Imperial Majesty’s edicts. They were loosely tied in with the official religion of the day so had a loose religious charter in their activities.” Zegrath noted her growing impatience and hurried along in his explanation. “Ahem, but to make a long tale succinct, the Emperor’s Hand is still around today although its numbers are few and its usage limited. In times past, they proved effective in rooting out spies, as well as capturing and interrogating the enemies of the Empire. I believe they can be staffed up to adequate manning and, once you give them your instructions, will act independently and effectively—perhaps, say, to run the campaign to round up and terminate magic users?”

  Nesnys sat up a bit straighter. “And is this Emperor’s Hand competent?”

  “Indeed. High Inquisitor Tellast is quite shrewd and suitably zealous about any missions he is assigned.”

  “Inquisitor.” She mused on the word, for “Emperor’s Hand” left a lot to be desired. “From henceforth, the order will be known solely by its original name of the Inquisition. I want an order to instill fear, quite difficult to do if it’s named for the palsied hand of a decrepit ruler.”

  “As you wish, Lady Nesnys.” Zegrath bobbed his head once more. “Easily done.”

  She caught Amralad’s amused look. “And do you have anything worthwhile to contribute, wizard?”

  His smile vanished. “Of course, Lady Nesnys. I’ve met with my sources and acquired a list of all the lords and officers in the Nebaran army who are competent, feared and admired, and can follow orders without question.”

  “That’s a good start. What of the champion I require?”

  Amralad stroked his beard. “I’m no expert on military matters, but one name has come to mind—a man as competent as he is brutal. Unfortunately, he has a bit of a black mark on his record, for a campaign against some would-be rebels led by His Imperial Majesty’s half brother a few years ago. This half brother was based out of Almanes, a city on the far-eastern coast. Colonel Cornix was summoned with his elite unit, the Hundred Scorpions, to stamp out this dissent. He proved a tad overzealous in his… cleansing of Almanes.”

  “He massacred hundreds of civilians is what my colleague means to say,” Zegrath interjected. “The Butcher of Almanes, as he is infamously known.”

  Amralad frowned at the priest. “So he did… In the public eye, he lost face, but he managed to brutally and very effectively exterminate the rebels and all of their kin. The man is thorough if nothing else.”

  Nesnys smiled. “And where is this Butcher of Almanes now?”

  “He resides in the dungeons at the moment. The Hundred Scorpions are intensely loyal to their commander, howev
er, and even his rivals in the officer ranks all admit the man is determined and loyal.”

  “Just a bit too eager… like a rabid dog once it catches a scent.” Nesnys stretched languidly and rose to her feet. “Yet dogs can be trained. Release this butcher, and I’ll evaluate his worth for myself. I feel there shall always be plenty of dirty work for which I can employ such a tool. He likely won’t prove suitable for my champion due to his black reputation, but I shall continue searching. Good work to the both of you.”

  The two men both bowed respectfully, clearly pleased at the praise.

  “I must now attend to military matters, in particular, a stalled offensive, which must be overcome. Fetch the inquisitor and butcher by sunrise on the day after tomorrow that I might evaluate them myself.”

  Nesnys strode from the room to their affirmations. She wished she had a competent aide who could handle all the ceaseless negotiating and scheming, but she didn’t. The two humans were competent enough, if somewhat shortsighted and uninspired. Her hand stole to Willbreaker’s pommel, and she caressed it as she walked.

  One more move to finish arranging the pieces properly, and then blood will be spilt.

  Chapter 4

  Taren stood beside Wyat and Elyas beneath a gray sky spitting cold sleet. The three of them were standing at Aunt Shenai’s grave. Wyat’s shoulders shook with his grief, and he fell to his knees in the wet grass beside the shrouded body of his wife. They were preparing to bury her in a peaceful shaded area at the southern edge of the field near the eaves of the woods.

  Shenai’s consumption had relapsed with a vengeance as soon as the cold snap struck, giving all a harsh reminder that spring wasn’t far removed from winter yet. She had been in the kitchen preparing a pot of tea when she’d had a bad coughing fit and collapsed. Wyat found her some time later and carried her to bed. Shenai had little strength, and it bled out of her shockingly fast. She burned up with fever but shivered with cold, unable to feel warm even tucked beneath a mound of blankets. The worst were the awful, wracking coughs that seized her, and she hacked up bloody phlegm and bits of her battered lungs.