suddenly like she was some school fucking bully – picking on the little guy. He and the axeman found themselves shoulder to shoulder, their backs to the platform edge.
“Think about it,” she told them. She came forwards, closing softly, like hands about their throats. She had them now; the heat and scent of her were rising around them both. “The Bard is gone, Rhan is defeated. Jade and Valiembor will fall. Maugrim will take the heart of the Varchinde, just as another will take its head.” She was smiling at them, warm curves and her claws receding. “And I want Khamsin.”
Ecko blinked. “Come-what?”
Redlock coughed, doubled over, hacking like an old man.
He managed, “If you don’t answer to Maugrim...?”
She shivered, delighted and anticipatory. “No, I am the eyes and ears and
Ecko’s heels were over the edge of the stone.
He could see movement behind her, a shape rising to its feet, drawing a wicked, serrated blade. He didn’t look at it – he kept his eyes on Tarvi’s.
“What the hell’re you talking about? Who feeds you?”
“You don’t know.” She seemed to find this hilarious, her laugh was full throated, bouncing back from the walls. “All those tales, and he missed telling you the one that actually mattered. Delicious.”
Ecko snorted. “He kinda didn’t have time. Did you blow up the village? How the hell did you do that?”
“You’re sweet,” she said. “But not too bright – that wasn’t me. I think that was just... target practice.” Her smile was needle-sharp. “The magharta – yes, I arranged the deaths of my patrol. It made you easier to control. Killing the centaur – I’m Kas, in my own way, both damned and powerful. I can take advantage of quintessential force.”
“So take advantage of this, already. You gotta capacitor right here. Why don’tcha just blow us up?”
“There’s enough force here to tear the both of you into pieces.” She came closer still, ran a hand down each of their cheeks. Her touch was lightning, fire: impossible promise and pleasure. “But your lives are far more valuable – your time feeds me, belongs to me.”
Behind her in the darkness, Triqueta was on her feet. She was older, leaner, grimmer, her expression lined with severity and an absolute lack of mercy.
“I don’t think so.” Her abrupt gesture was hard, final.
Tarvi shrieked as the serrated blade slammed into her back. For a moment, her hand reached to Ecko, for his time, for his help, he didn’t know. Her dark eyes begged him,
Triq said, “You betrayed your tan – your family.” With a wrench, she yanked the blade free, watched as Tarvi crumpled. “You’re not betraying mine.”
Ecko watched her slump, his arms folded and his chin raised. His expression was flat, his oculars dry.
His foot connected hard with the side of her skull.
“Bitch.”
She didn’t move again.
25: TWICE FALLEN
FHAVEON
They came for Rhan at last: the soldier Mostak and the old priest Gorinel.
Neither of them spoke, and they didn’t meet his gaze.
Rhan was numb, broken, listing somewhere between hopelessness and denial. He made no effort to resist them, nor to plead for understanding as they blindfolded him and bound his wrists. The bonds were crafted of fabric and smelling of camphor, but they held him as if they were Kartian metal.
Their shame was bond enough.
Wearily, the old priest raised his spread hand to Rhan’s chest and touched him with each finger in turn, pressing them home like marks – a gesture unseen in Fhaveon in hundreds of returns.
An odd and momentary thought:
Rhan couldn’t remember, and obscurely, this bothered him.
Gorinel’s voice was a soft, barrel-chested rumble, almost regretful. “By your might, Samiel; by your mercy, Cedetine; by your justice, Dyarmenethe; by your wisdom, Cemothen; by your love, Calarinde...”
Rhan quelled a surge of misery – like the bonds, like the ritual itself, the names of the Gods were so long- unused that the church had no knowledge even of their meaning, of the identities they tried to invoke. For an instant, he allowed himself to plead to them, silently, to the very heavens themselves,
But the priest continued as if the Gods had not heard him. Gorinel pressed the palm of his hand against Rhan’s chest, as if marking him with a brand.
“This man, Rhan of Fhaveon, has been found guilty of treason and regicide. He is sentenced to be outcast from the city...”
Under the darkness of his despair, Rhan remembered,
“...that he may lay down his sin with his mortal body, and enter the Halls of the Gods...”
“...untainted by his actions...”
“...By the rule of Heal and Harm, we take life that life may be spared. In the name of the Gods...”
“...let justice be done.”
Mostak, commander of the soldiery, responded to the old priest’s final words, just as Dyarmenethe, brother of Samiel, had done, over four hundred returns before.
“Justice will be done.”
And, just as the hands of Samiel and his brother had held Rhan out over chaos and let him fall, so now did these hands lead him out to face a fall from another height – to once again plummet into the cold waters of the eastern sea.
The fall would be less far, but this time, there was no Tekisarri to pull him free, and to give him purpose and new life.
He was condemned.
...
For now, though, he had a moment – a fragment of time to cry his denial, to prove his own innocence or Phylos’s guilt, to free himself and release the stranglehold that the Merchant Master closed about the city. A single opportunity to wrest back control and to uncover whatever real plans Phylos harboured. If he failed, and if his brother Kas Vahl Zaxaar ever returned, then the daemon would tear the Varchinde to screaming pieces.
