What happened the night your brother died? the consort asked.
We captured the unifier, the prince admitted, drawing a hiss from his cohort. The princes sent south tensed at the words, craniums pulsing as they conversed.
Then why is your brother gone while the unifier continues to kill drones and draw humans to serve him? the consort demanded.
We walked his mind to learn of his power, the prince thought, but he escaped before we could bring him to you.
A second lie? the consort asked. The prince’s lidless eyes widened, but he had no time to protest before the mimic slashed a talon, opening his cranium wide. The consort reached inside, tearing bits of the prince’s mind, feeding as the others watched with horror and jealousy mingled in their auras.
As he fed, the memories and will of the prince transferred to him, and he learned in an instant everything they had taken from the unifier’s mind. The consort was nearly overwhelmed by the pleasure and power of it. He had feasted on the minds of his brethren numerous times over the millennia, and it never failed to leave him dizzy with strength. Outside, the prince’s mimic shrieked and began to lose cohesion.
The consort looked to the other prince that had shared in the deception. He stood frozen with fear, no doubt wondering if he would share his brother’s fate.
Go, the consort ordered, and the prince did not question his fortune, backing quickly out of the cave and fleeing to the Core, taking his mimic with him.
The other two princes stood motionless as the consort digested the memories of their brother. One licked his teeth, looking at the broken cranium.
The consort was shocked to learn that the unifier had stolen much of his power by consuming drones. He had not known it was possible for the surface stock to store Core magic in their bodies and learn to Draw. It seemed as impossible as a rock drone debating philosophy, but there was no denying it.
And now he knew, too, the answer to the question that had drawn them all to the surface in the first place. The fighting wards had been found buried in the sand to the south.
The Northern unifier has stolen a bit of our power, but I have his measure now, he thought to the others. There is nothing he can do we cannot. We must simply devise the right lure to draw him off his greatwards.
No mind would be so foolish, one of the princes thought.
This one has foolishness to spare, the consort assured him. He is not nearly as evolved as he thinks, and he has led us to the source of the uprising. He sent a mental image of the lost city of the last unifier.
We must go there on the next cycle and grind every last stone to powder, the consort thought. I will shit on the unifier’s corpse myself, for the trouble he caused us.
The other minds gave their agreement, and the consort met their eyes, letting them see him in the fullness of power.
Open your minds to me, he ordered. It was not something he would dare back in the mind court, but these princes knew well that they would never see the court again if they did not comply, and it was a better fate by far than having their minds consumed. As one, they lowered their defences, letting the consort sift their memories of the last three nights.
They had been in contact with their brother when the heir appeared, wearing the cursed crown and driving his vicious weapon into the prince’s chest.
The consort felt a chill of fear as he relived the memory. The Northerner was powerful, but his power was no more than the weakest of princelings. The heir had done what he feared most and unlocked the full power of the artefacts.
He had become the mind hunter, like the withered corpse out in the desert.
How many of the consort’s brethren and ancestors had fallen before that one? The Queen herself had not been alive then, but he was. He had been juvenile and weak, surviving more by luck than cunning, but he remembered well the terror that permeated the air of the mind court.
The consort dismissed the others with a nod, letting them flee the surface before gathering his mimics and riding the currents of the vent back to the Core.
The heir must be killed quickly, before he could set up a dynasty.
29
333 AR Autumn
‘I have taken the alagai princes’ measure,’ Ahmann said, ‘and found them wanting.’ He pointed to the foot of the dais. The curtains of his throne room had been pulled tight and the room lit by oil lamps that he might display the bulbous head of the demon prince, staked there. He had ordered Abban to commission masons to brick the windows permanently.
His counsellors had taken it in turn to stare into the huge bulbous black eyes of their enemy, each hiding his revulsion behind a forced scoff of derision. Abban could not blame them. The demon was not nearly so large or full of teeth and claws as many of its other brethren, but its otherworldly stare was unnerving. Its high conical head, vestigial horns, and almost gentle features were not those of a mindless killer. It was a thinker. A planner.
Not for the first time, Abban thanked Everam that he was a crippled khaffit and denied the night.
He adjusted his camel crutch into a more comfortable position as his friend gave the speech the two of them had so carefully prepared. Though he often stood on the dais where he could advise his master, they had agreed that for this decree Abban should remain on the floor, that none should suspect his involvement. Ahmann would get his way regardless, but the clerics would fall into line much more quickly if they thought the plans were coming from the Shar’Dama Ka and not a spineless khaffit.
They think me spineless, but I can make them dance like puppets. He kept his eyes respectfully down, but he had learned to see much in periphery watching the clerics as Ahmann spoke.
‘But we must not grow complacent,’ Ahmann went on. ‘The return of the sons of Alagai Ka signals the beginning of Sharak Ka, and Sharak Ka cannot be won until Sharak Sun is brought to a close. The alagai cannot break our defences, but they can wear them down, burning fields and killing livestock until we are too weak to fight, even as the greenlanders gird themselves against us. To win both wars, we must continue to expand, bringing the Northern cities one by one under Evejan law, levying their men and confiscating their resources.’
Damaji Aleverak nodded. ‘The Daylight War must be won, and we grow soft in Everam’s Bounty.’
‘Agreed,’ Ashan said. Technically he spoke for the council, but all knew he was Ahmann’s puppet. Aleverak was the oldest and most venerated of the Damaji, the only man who had fought Ahmann for the Skull Throne and lived to speak of it. All treated the ancient cleric with deference, and his words were given enormous weight.
This was why Ahmann, when he met with them privately earlier in the day, ordered Aleverak to speak first, and Ashan second.
Ahmann thumped the butt of his spear on the dais. ‘We will attack Lakton in two months.’ On cue, Abban furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.
‘You frown, khaffit,’ Ahmann said. ‘Do you doubt the wisdom of my plan?’
All eyes turned to Abban, and he pretended to wilt under their glare. No doubt everyone in the room was praying for him to say something foolish that would cost him his favour with the Shar’Dama Ka.
It was, Abban had to admit, a valid concern. He knew full well that should he ever publicly fall from Ahmann’s favour, every man in the room — not to mention the Damajah herself — would move immediately to dominate or kill him.