Song of the Dragon

sideways, collapsing into the northeast wall, slicing down through the subatria curtain wall and buildings, burying them in a hopeless pile of unrecognizable rubble. It was there, Soen noted with detachment, that the fire had burned most fiercely, but the off-shore winds of the evening must have kept the flames burning away from the southern and western sections of the subatria.

“What happened here, Master?” Jukung’s words were heavy, as though he were having difficulty speaking.

“The House fell. . quite literally it seems. Here it is, Jukung; this is the center-the root. Everything that fell on the frontier-every Well that failed-started with this event.” Soen turned to face Jukung. “The answer is here, Assesia. Have Qinsei and Phang discovered what I sent them to find?”

“I am only an Assesia, Master. I am not privy to. .”

“Have they or not?” There was no question in Soen’s voice.

“Phang reports that the Impress Scrolls are lost-apparently burned and scattered beyond recovery,” Jukung answered though his eyes were fixed anywhere but on Soen.

“And Qinsei?”

“She has recovered most of the Devotion Ledger for the last eight months.”

“Well, that’s something that may prove useful.” Soen began picking his way around the southern edge of the garden wall. Here the debris was minimal although it was also unfortunately easier to pick out individual bodies or their parts. Soen dutifully noted a large concentration of warrior and Guardian bodies choking the hall that led back to the Hall of the Past on the far side of the ruined garden. In his mind, Soen pictured the Guardians gathering for their mutual defense against a suddenly insane and desperate enemy, trying to back into the corridor and find a more defensible position.

Just before this pile of dead, a glint caught his eye near the base of the curving wall. Soen looked up again at the smoldering mass of the avatria that loomed above him. He could make out only a handful of plates from the underside of the structure; it was unstable to say the least. Soen hoped to the gods that it would hold long enough to satisfy his curiosity.

Soen moved quickly around the remaining southern wall of the garden. There were more slave bodies here; some had been crushed under the debris from the collapse while others had died from sword and dagger wounds. Their blood had mixed with the dust in dark, solid stains. Still he kept his eye on his prize, moving as quickly as he dared.

At last he stopped. He stood under the archway that opened into the Hall of the Past, but that history did not interest him just yet. He reached down and plucked the shining object from the dust.

It was a crystalline shard-barely more than a sliver-that fit neatly in the palm of his hand.

“What is it?” Jukung asked in a hoarse voice.

“That, my young Assesia,” Soen said through a rueful smile, “is part of an Aether Well.”

“You are mistaken,” Jukung said. “It cannot be.”

“And yet it is,” Soen replied. “Aether Wells might crack or they might split, but the power of the Aether itself binds the crystals together. It is impossible for them to shatter once they are forged-and yet,” he held the crystal within inches of the young elf’s face, “here is it. In the face of the impossible we find ourselves holding it in our hand.”

Soen turned and looked up. “And there it is.”

“What, Master?”

“The story of the House,” Soen said as he stepped carefully across the debris and strewn bodies into the Hall of the Past. Soen followed the broken wall, reading it for a few moments until he summarized for the young Assesia. “Sha-Timuran was an elf of the Third Estate,” Soen said, mulling his own words. “His name apparently did rank among the noble Houses of the Empire. Two generations before it had been ranked only in the Fourth Estate, but due to a series of favors looked kindly on by the Imperial Eye, House Timuran was allowed to prove itself in the Third Estate by taking up residence in the Western Provinces. And this, it seems, was the result of all his efforts. He had grand hopes of garnering honor through battle. His single little Centurai had participated in nearly every battle against the Nine Dwarven. .”

Soen suddenly stopped.

A long stain ran down the length of the Hall of the Past.

Soen moved quickly, running around the bend of the hall as he pursued the path of the blood on the floor. Within a few strides he could see its source-a single, elven body slumped backward against the wall at the far end of the corridor. The face was bloated and discolored, but Soen recognized at once the uniform of the House Tribune, a patch remaining over his left eye. His blade was broken, but the grip was still in his hand.

Soen straightened, considering the figure before him.

“I know this elf,” he murmured in awe.

Jukung slid to a stop next to the Inquisitor, eyeing the dead Tribune. The smell of rotting flesh was overpowering. “Master, we must be going. .”

“Pause for a moment, Jukung, and honor a fallen hero,” the Inquisitor said, gesturing toward the dead elf sagging against the wall before him. “This is Se’Djinka-hero of the Benis Isles Campaigns among a dozen others. He was a general back then, and I only personally saw him twice. He lost favor in the Imperial Courts, however, and vanished from the official histories. Now we find him as a dead Tribune in this obscure, ambitious House.”

“This place is unsafe, Master,” Jukung urged, gagging even as he spoke. “We must hurry. .”

“Don’t you think this is odd, Jukung?”

“I. . what, Master?”

“That the Guardians of the House had all formed together in the entrance to this hall,” Soen said, speaking aloud his thoughts as he considered them, his eyes fixed on the corpse before them. “It doesn’t lead anywhere except to one of the access towers, but the avatria had no doubt fallen by the time they made their defense. This hall would have been a dead end. Yet here we see their Tribune. Why would a Tribune- and especially a successful and brilliant tactician by all accounts-put himself and his force in such a precarious position unless. .”

Soen reached forward, gripping the Tribune’s armor behind his neck and pulling the body suddenly forward. It made a sticky, ripping sound as it separated from the wall and collapsus to the floor. Soen stepped over the body to the wall, gave it a cursory look, and then pressed against it.

The flat stonework shifted inward slightly and then swung back toward the elven Inquisitor. At once, Soen stepped back, pulling open the hidden door.

“Unless he was protecting something,” Soen finished as he stepped into the doorway and then stopped.

The room was uncomfortably small and completely devoid of decoration or furniture. It had never really been intended for use but had been part of the original plans, and no one had bothered to make the alterations necessary to delete it. Yet the Tribune knew it was there-and so, at last it had served its purpose.

A single figure stooped shivering in the corner of the room.

Soen reached his hand out with care.

“Tsi-Shebin?” he asked softly.

The elven girl looked up, her black eyes wide, though whether with anger or fear, Soen was not sure. She remained as she was, however, her arms locked around her knees. The room stank of her.

Soen knelt down with agonizing slowness, then spoke. “Shebin. . my name is Soen. We are here to help you. We will take you away from here. You will be safe again. Do you hear me?”

The girl jerked her head in two short nods.

Soen drew in a deep breath, watching her carefully.

“Who did this, Shebin?” he asked.

She blinked and then her eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth, and when she spoke, her words came in croaking sounds so harsh that he was unsure he understood her.

“Did you say a slave?”

“Yes,” she rasped. “A slave. . a hoo-mani slave! You have to catch him. . bring him back to me. . let me kill him. . I have to kill him.”

“What slave?” Soen asked. “What is his name?”