deadly by reputation, walked with his supporters on the left. Iizan of Ghaal Sehn, wealthy and willful, looking more like a merchant than a warrior, watched from the right.
Haruuc had been deeply concerned with selecting the perfect heir, with finding a successor who would build on the foundations that he had built. Unfortunately, death had found Haruuc before he had named that heir. It could have been worse, Geth knew. If there had been a clear heir, he wouldn’t have had the chance to take control of the rod. It had killed Haruuc as surely as Chetiin. But sooner or later there would be an heir, and he’d have no choice but to hand over the rod-and the dangerous secrets within it.
Tariic looked over his shoulder as he walked. He met Aguus’s challenge with a practiced calm. “I speak to a friend, Aguus.”
“So long as he holds the throne, he is no friend of yours,” Aguus snapped. “The assembly of warlords swore to respect the terms of mourning. We do not seek to advance ourselves until Haruuc is laid to rest. You already force the terms by marching in a place of pride.”
Tariic’s ears pressed back against his skull. “Haruuc was warlord of the Rhukaan Taash clan before he was lhesh. The traditions of the Rhukaan Taash are clear. By those traditions, I am Haruuc’s heir as warlord. A place of pride is my right.”
“Haruuc’s status as lhesh takes precedence over his status as warlord. You try to influence the assembly by putting yourself on display before the allotted time.”
“And what do you do by challenging him, Aguus? Why do you challenge Tariic’s place when no one else does?”
The words came from the young warlord who walked on Geth’s left. Dagii of Mur Talaan’s gray eyes flashed, and his ears shivered as he glared back at Aguus. Geth had asked him to walk at his side as an advisor-a good choice. In the battle-scarred ancestral armor, the three long horns of a massive tribex mounted on its shoulders and back, of the warlords of Mur Talaan, Dagii made a commanding figure. Warlords who might have mistrusted the shifter who had seized the Rod of Kings could respect the hobgoblin who had defeated the Gan’duur for Haruuc.
Aguus’s glare shifted from Tariic to Dagii, but other warlords were rumbling their agreement with the chief of Mur Talaan. Aguus dropped his gaze. “Haruuc must be honored,” he said. “He leaves us a great legacy.”
“He is honored,” said Dagii. “No more challenges. Let the people see that the lords of Darguun are united in their respect for Haruuc.” With a fluid motion, he drew his sword and thrust it into the air. “Haruuc!” he shouted. “Haruuc!”
The other marching warlords followed his example, drawing their weapons and holding them aloft. Tariic, Geth noticed, was the fastest to put his sword in the air. For a moment, it seemed as if the watching crowd paused in their own shouting-then the air shook with a roar that was louder than ever. Light flashed from polished blades as the gesture was imitated in a ripple along the procession of the powerful and important-warlords and chiefs, ambassadors and envoys from hobgoblin clans that stood apart from the lhesh’s authority, from the nations beyond Darguun, and from the great dragonmarked houses-that followed behind the throne.
Haruuc’s dead ears heard nothing, but the bugbears carrying his throne stood taller and the day seemed a little brighter.
Geth’s hand squeezed the rod until his fingers ached. He glanced at Dagii and found the young warlord looking back at him. He nodded grimly and Dagii nodded back. Geth drew breath between his teeth and turned his eyes forward again. Somewhere back in the procession, Ekhaas and Ashi would be feeling the same thing he did.
If they failed in what lay before them, Haruuc’s only legacy would be chaos and the collapse of the nation he had founded. Darguun would die. And so might they.
Ten days earlier-9 Sypheros
Smoke rose in a column over Rhukaan Draal, illuminated by flames below and moonlight above. From the window at which Ekhaas stood, high in Khaar Mbar’ost, she could see only the one fire, but others were probably burning. Word of Haruuc’s assassination had spread into the city. The night would be violent.
Word had almost certainly spread beyond Rhukaan Draal. Beyond Darguun, as well. Across the city, ambassadors and envoys would be employing any means at their disposal to rush news of the lhesh’s death to their lords. House Sivis’s network of speaking stones would be alive with whispers. House Orien’s legion of couriers would be flashing across vast distances. In every nation of Khorvaire, in palaces and seats of power, sovereigns and dragonmarked patriarchs would be called from tables, desks, and beds to hear of events in Darguun.
She had just helped to do the same, weaving her duur’kala magic together with that of Senen Dhakaan, ambassador of the Kech Volaar to Haruuc’s court, to send a message to Volaar Draal. Now the wind brought the ghost of a song back to her ears-a reply, but not one that was meant for her.
Ekhaas turned to look at Senen Dhakaan. The chamber in which they stood was hers, simply decorated in a way that imitated a stark style popular during a middle period of the Dhakaani Empire. Senen’s ears stood high and quivering as she listened to a song that had been sung far away in the mountain caverns of their clan. The song faded and she nodded.
“The visit has been cancelled,” she said. “Tuura Dhakaan and Kurac Thaar will remain in Volaar Draal.”
“And the alliance with Darguun?” Ekhaas asked. Like the other Dhakaani Clans that revered the old ways of the ancient Empire of Dhakaan, the Kech Volaar had stood apart when Haruuc founded his new nation. The Dhakaani Clans lived within Darguun but were not a part of it. Haruuc had recently persuaded the leaders of the Kech Volaar, Tuura Dhakaan and her warlord consort Kurac Thaar, that Darguun and the Kech Volaar had more to gain in working together. By joining Darguun, the Kech Volaar would have a voice in the assembly of warlords and the means to spread the stories of Dhakaan that they had collected for thousands of years-and Haruuc would have access to the clan’s hoarded secrets.
Tuura and Kurac had been planning a journey from Volaar Draal to Rhukaan Draal to formalize the alliance. But like so much that Haruuc had accomplished during his reign, the nascent alliance had been built on the force of his personality. With his death…
Senen shook her head. “They will wait to see who comes to the throne.” She turned a slow stare on Ekhaas. “They aren’t certain what to make of Geth’s actions.”
Ekhaas’s clenched teeth ground a little tighter before she answered. “He is Haruuc’s shava. It was his duty to take charge of Haruuc’s affairs until an heir is determined. He follows tradition.”
Senen pursed her lips and her ears flicked. “Which Tuura Dhakaan respects. She also recognizes that by taking up Guulen, the Rod of Kings, he staves off a more serious battle between the prospective heirs. But he is a shifter, not one of the dar. Why is he doing these things?”
Dar-the ancient term for the goblin races. Ekhaas had heard the word-and the Goblin words for the three races-more frequently in recent days than she ever had before, as if Haruuc had woken a new pride in the triple races before his death and the people were throwing off names pressed on them by human domination. Bugbears were once again guul’dar, the strong people; goblins were golin’dar, the quick people; hobgoblins, ghaal’dar. The mighty people. But in uncertain times, maybe it was good to have such things to cling to.
“Geth is shava to Haruuc,” Ekhaas said. “He bears the Sword of Heroes.” She shrugged. “He has a respect for tradition.”
“How do you know?”
“He is my friend.”
“You also counted Chetiin as one of your friends.” Senen’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know, Ekhaas?”
A knock on the door of the chamber and a call from the corridor beyond saved her from a lie. “Senen Dhakaan! Are you there? I’m looking for Ekhaas.”
It was Dagii. Senen’s ears twitched and her hard eyes took on a knowing, triumphant gleam. She turned away from Ekhaas to open the door. “Saa’atcha, lord of the Mur Talaan.”
Dagii didn’t enter the room. He stood in the doorway, his gray eyes moving from her to Senen and back again as if he could sense the brewing tension between them. Those pale eyes, combined with shadow-gray hair and a naturally somber face, made him look older than he really was. In fact, he was no older than Ekhaas herself, and young for a warlord. “Geth sent me,” he said. “He wants to talk to you.”
Worse words couldn’t have been spoken. Senen’s ears rose sharply. Ekhaas walked past her without saying
