“I am sorry, my Lord,” Velixar whispered. “I. . am. . sorry.”
Karak ran a hand through his short, dark hair and closed his eyes. “It is not all your doing. I am at fault as well. In my haste to bring about this conflict, I failed to do that which I had done for an epoch. I failed to watch. Had I kept an eye on my children, I would have known of their treachery and put a stop to it. Had I taken a moment to quell Darakken myself, instead of making plans for war, I would have him under better control. Humans are fallible; I am not supposed to be.”
Velixar did his best to compose himself.
“What do we do now?”
Karak formed a fist and ground it in his opposite palm. “Now we accelerate. My brother’s children must fall, and they must fall soon, while he is still weakened. If we cannot assault them with magic, we will assault them with everything else at our disposal. I will walk among my children and aid them in their construction. Once they are finished, we will attack, and this time we will know exactly when and exactly where.”
“And how is that, my Lord? Have you seen something of Ashhur’s children through the ether?”
“I can no more espy my brother’s children than he can see mine, High Prophet. It must be you. You are the greatest of humanity-surely you can discover a way. Is your magic not powerful?”
“It is powerful, my Lord, but the walls are protected now, as you have said.”
Karak glanced once more in the direction of Donnell Winter’s head. “Perhaps all this power has weakened you in other ways. You are strong, you are mighty, but in many ways Jacob Eveningstar was cleverer. What would he have done?”
Velixar had no chance to answer before Karak bid his farewell and left the pavilion. He stood in the center of the space, perplexed and more than a little insulted. What would Jacob Eveningstar do? It was a question Velixar hadn’t pondered since he took the name of the demon as his own. Jacob was a mere human, albeit an ageless one. What could he accomplish that Velixar could not?
Velixar lifted his gaze to the hanging mirror of his room and stared at his reflection, his narrow chin, his elegant nose, his high cheekbones, his satiny black hair, his glowing red eyes. Karak was right. Beneath the veneer the demon’s essence had given him, he was still Jacob Eveningstar. And it was the First Man of Dezrel who had facilitated the battle in Haven, who had brought about this very war by using tools such as this dragonglass mirror before him. How would that man use the tools at his disposal. .?
Dragonglass.
He traced his fingers along the elegant carvings on the mirror’s edge. The mirror had once belonged to Crian Crestwell, and Jacob Eveningstar had stepped through it to end the life of both the romantic dullard and his western whore. Dragonglass. It was an element with properties he had long ago learned how to manipulate. Jacob had used the pendant Brienna Meln had given him to commune with Clovis Crestwell, had whispered promises of power and might and glory into the egotistical bastard’s head. Dragonglass. A rare beauty created by the breath of the last dragon in Dezrel. The only items made from it that he knew of were this mirror, his and Clovis’s old pendants, and. . and. .
The blade. Winterbone, the sword, one of the greatest forged in the Mount Hailen armory, had a dragonglass crystal affixed to its handle. He laughed to himself, softly at first, then louder and louder until his cackle seemed as raucous as thunder. The sword was inside Mordeina’s walls, in the possession of the deformed Patrick DuTaureau. . which meant it was Velixar’s tool as well. He knew how to manipulate that mutant of a man as well as he did dragonglass.
“My dear Patrick,” he said into the mirror when his laughter died down, “I think your beloved little Nessa wishes to speak with you.”
CHAPTER 11
Rachida Gemcroft was bored out of her drunken mind. She lay on a bed inside a drab, one-room hovel in Conch, a strange little village on the northwestern coast of Paradise, waiting for dawn to come. She was alone despite being surrounded by hundreds.
What I’d give to have Moira with me, she thought bitterly. Nothing was ever boring when she was around.
Rachida had been seven years old when she met her kindred spirit. Moira was a year older, more slender, and boyish, though she had a certain cuteness that could not be denied. Her silver hair was chopped short, to the obvious dismay of Lanike Crestwell, who had brought her then-youngest child to visit the secluded village of Erznia at Soleh Mori’s behest.
The two girls struck up a bond almost immediately, and for the first time ever Rachida began to understand how complex people could be. Although Moira was certainly tough-being raised a Crestwell, she had no choice in the matter-there was still a sort of sensitivity, a neediness in her that melded well with Rachida’s more stern and manipulative personality. The silver-haired girl was prone to daydreams, sitting by the pond behind Mori Manor and gazing at the sky while the passing clouds reflected in her eyes. The moments they spent together in the woods, running around collecting frogs, insects, or salamanders, were pure bliss.
That first visit lasted a mere four days, and after Lanike brought her daughter back to Veldaren, Rachida was crestfallen, and began writing letters to the girl. Moira always wrote back, and Rachida would find herself looking to the skies each day, waiting for the next bird to arrive. For the first time in her short life, she actually felt like the maidens from her mother’s stories. Every night she would kneel by her bed and thank Karak, in her little girl voice, for bringing this wonderful creature to her.
It was a time of wonder, of beauty, of endless hope and dreams.
Now those dreams are gone, she thought.
Her parents were dead. Her sister was dead. Her brothers were dead. All of Erznia had been slaughtered, including Bracken Renson, the first man she had ever kissed, when she was thirteen. And for what?
For nothing. Because our bastard god demanded it.
Quester Billings, the so-called Crimson Sword of Riverrun, had told her of Erznia’s slaughter during their two-day jaunt from the Isles of Gold to Conch. For the rest of the journey, Rachida mourned while the galley rocked and creaked. She saw her mother’s face each time she closed her eyes; felt Vulfram’s strong arms around her when she wrapped herself in a blanket; heard Oris’s hearty laugh in the laughter of the soldiers drinking in the common room belowdecks. At times she felt close to tears and had to bite down on her lip or pinch the skin of her arm to hold them back. I will not, she told herself, vehemently shaking her head. Rachida Gemcroft did not cry, not since that first night Moira had been taken away so long ago.
Moira. . that was the worst wound of all. Quester informed her that Moira had known of the death of her family since the first night of her servitude to Matthew Brennan. That she didn’t tell Rachida before her departure was a stinging betrayal. She knew she shouldn’t feel that way, but anger was a hard emotion to quell. Moira was still alive, if the blond sellsword was to be believed, and it was easier to cast blame on the living than weep for the dead.
You know who to blame. . and it is not Moira.
She rolled over in her uncomfortable bed, staring at the dreary simplicity of her surroundings. This hovel had been her home for the last few weeks, and she loathed it. She wanted to move, was itching for action. She and the six hundred sellswords-her personal army-had been here for far too long already, slumbering among Ashhur’s naïve children while they collected provisions for the march ahead. Surprisingly, the citizens of Conch had welcomed them with open arms, offering anything Rachida and her men wanted. They were a tender, trusting people, regaling the newcomers with stories. These people laughed and sang, and gave them whiskey and wine and food for their bellies. Their constant prayers to Ashhur were bothersome to Rachida, and though she appreciated their hospitality, she found them far too credulous. She wanted to leave. But the late fall crops they promised to share had yet to be harvested, so for the last twenty-six days the sellswords had spent hours tending the fields, yanking corn, beets, rutabagas, carrots, and beans from the fertile soil. It was work unbefitting for men of their particular skills, and not a one of them was happy about it, but they all knew it was better to be unhappy now than starving to death on the road later.