something else, though, a tugging at my spirit, like a hole that opens up beneath us.'
'The power of the Temple is weakening,' Lakhyri said with a single, slow nod. 'It took much of the remaining energy to bring you and your father to this place.'
'Why did you? Why are we so important that you would do that?'
'You are the true heirs to the Blood. It is imperative that you survive. The Blood must rule the empire. You will be restored to your rightful place and the course of the empire shall be corrected, returning to the path that has been laid down.'
'What of Ullsaard? He is king now. Why is he so wrong for Askhor?'
The tiniest flicker of agitation passed across Lakhyri's face, so fleeting that Erlaan wondered if he had imagined it.
'He is a usurper,' said the high priest. 'He does not belong. He is not part of the plan. Your father is the true heir to the empire, and you after him.'
'That's why you're keeping him alive?'
Lakhyri's lips twisted fractionally at the corners, distorting the runes carved into his cheeks. Erlaan realised it was a smile, more grotesque and frightening than anything he had seen. What could amuse such a creature?
'It is not I who sustains your father, nor the powers of the Temple. It is from you that he draws sustenance. You give over to him your own life. Every moment that you feed him with your spirit is a moment taken from your mortal span.'
Erlaan instinctively drew back his hand from Kalmud's chest, and felt a sudden pang of guilt that his natural reaction was so selfish. Even so, he did not put back his hand.
'Why did you not tell me sooner?' the prince asked.
'So that you would know what it feels like to make such a decision.'
'Decision? What decision?'
'Whether your father lives or dies.'
As horrifying as the idea was, Erlaan felt no shock at the thought of his father's life being in his hands. This was a place that teetered on the line between life and death, existence and oblivion. The idea of responsibility, of becoming king, had terrified Erlaan, but in the Temple there was nothing that felt more natural.
'The choice you face is harsher than you think,' said Lakhyri, breaking Erlaan's train of thought.
'Harsher? What could be harsher than life or death?'
'A quick or slow death. I see from your eyes that you already are considering whether it is worth the expenditure of your life to perpetuate this half-existence of your father. There is another option. That flutter of life that still beats in your father's breast, it is weak, but it exists. It is in your power to take it for yourself.'
'Steal his life force?' It was a genuine inquiry, not an admonishment. Erlaan wondered why the suggestion did not fill him with disgust. Why did he spend even a moment contemplating such a thing?
'Your father's opportunity has passed, Erlaan.' It was the first time Lakhyri had addressed him by name. The high priest stepped into the room. His words were delivered in the same flat manner as before, without pity or distaste, but his eyes betrayed just a shred of lingering humanity as he continued. 'Your chance is now. To let your father dwindle away would be doubly disrespectful. End his suffering now, and use the last of his strength for yourself, to reclaim that which belongs to you.'
Erlaan said nothing, but his mind was awhirl with the implications. His father's life hung by a narrow thread, all that remained between Erlaan and becoming the heir to Askhos. Was it selfishness to cut that thread, or was it a mercy? He turned back to Kalmud and placed the tips of his fingers on his cold brow.
'The empire has already taken his life,' said Erlaan. 'It would be a waste to let what remains slip away without purpose. What do I do?'
'You already know.'
Taking a breath, Erlaan stared at his stricken father. He could feel the tremor of a pulse, not in his fingers, but somewhere deeper, in his veins. It took no effort, Blood calling to Blood, drawing to its own. Erlaan felt the slightest shift within, a momentary change of current between him and Kalmud.
His father's heart stopped and a last breath whispered from Kalmud's lips.
'I have little to offer,' said Erlaan, closing his father's eyes before turning to Lakhyri.
'What are you willing to give?' said the priest.
'I have no experience as a leader of men, and I am no great warrior. I would not call myself brave by any measure.'
'These things I can give you, if you are willing. It will not be easy, and it will not be pleasant. What will you do to reign as king?'
Erlaan looked at his father and thought of his dead grandfather and uncle. He was the last of the Blood, save for the bastard who now wore the Crown. It was Erlaan's birthright to rule, and he recalled Ullsaard's words to him, an assertion the general had made to assuage the prince's doubts, which Erlaan had etched into his memory during the long days and nights he had spent in Askh, fearfully waiting by his father's side. 'You are what you are, and it is in you to embrace that destiny. You owe it not only to yourself, but to the people you will rule and your forefathers.'
The prince met the implacable glare of Lakhyri.
'My family have given their lives for the Crown. I would offer nothing less. My body and my spirit, if needed.'
Lakhyri accepted this declaration with a slow blink.
'Your life will not be necessary. Your spirit, your body… that is a different matter.'
Geria
Summer, 211th year of Askh
The herald waited with his helmet under one arm, eyes roving around the great hall of the palace looking at the murals on the walls and ceiling, examining the delicate tiles of the mosaic underfoot; his eyes looked everywhere except at Urikh.
The prince carefully read the missive from Harrakil, deciphering the First Captain's infantile strokes. When he was finished he leaned across from his chair and handed the letter to his mother, sat on his right.
'You know the contents of this?' Urikh asked the herald.
'Yes, prince. Captain Harrakil said I was to add anything else you might ask.'
'These Mekhani attacks, how frequent are they?'
'Before I left, there had been seven in thirty days, prince. All along the border. Raids, mostly.'
'Raids? Three towns have been destroyed!'
'Yes, prince. No survivors. We don't know how big the Mekhani forces were. There have to be several armies, to attack so many places so quickly. Leviira and Hanalun had garrisons of three hundred men each, prince. Wiped out to the man.'
'Captain Harrakil tells me that captives were taken.'
'Yes, prince. Slaves, most likely.'
Luia stirred, folding her hands in her lap, the letter in her grasp.
'The Mekhani do not take slaves,' she said. 'Not before now.'
'That's right, queen. We don't know why they've started.'
'What else don't you know?' asked Urikh, keeping his tone mild.
'I don't understand, prince.'
'Who is leading these Mekhani attacks? What is Harrakil going to do about them? What extra forces does he need?'
'He was waiting on your orders, prince, which I'm supposed to return with. There's no way of telling where the next attack will come, or when. The border's more than five hundred miles, from the Greenwater to the mountains. The captain's worry is that if we split up, we'll be picked off like the garrisons.'
'Three quarters of the legion is already in the area,' said Luia. 'Are nearly five thousand troops not enough for Harrakil?'
