Chapter 2: Homecoming

“Ancient Sangrithar was the mightiest of the kingdoms of Man. In its heyday, it came close to rivaling the beauty of my beloved Nammovalle, but by the time of Hali, it had become a den of iniquity. I petitioned the Lady more than once for permission to honor my vow, but she merely shook her head and counseled me to have patience. In the end, the Balance did prevail, as it always does, but far too much blood was spilled.” Kandol Elf Lord

Hali drew in a breath of ocean air while standing on the prow above the painted Raena guiding the ship through the open sea, glad to be home. Solare burn him, after Cormane he felt great, no matter what came next. For the first time in years, he was at peace with himself.

Foambreaker sailed towards the Knot, a series of offset stone walls forming a simple maze that warded Belgrith Harbor. Over three years in the making and the product of Sangrithar’s finest shipwrights, Foambreaker was the pearl of the fleet. He’d taken her to Cormane over the objections of the Admiral, who’d been as nervous as a new mother leaving her babe at the prospect of someone else taking her helm.

Colossal statues of Raena and Thar who was Umbar looked seaward from the escarpments. Archers and catapult crews stationed in the heads waved when Foambreaker sailed past. On the voyage from Cormane, he’d given more than a passing thought as to whether shackles or an honor guard would be waiting for him when he docked and took this as a good sign.

The massive gates to the Knot were open, as they always were except in times of war. He ordered Foambreaker into the maze. Whatever fate awaited him, he was ready to face it.

A cheer erupted from the legions garrisoned atop the western escarpment. Hundreds of mailed legionnaires called his name and beat their shields with sword or spear. If the God-Emperor was on to him, he’d kept it to himself. Still, he wouldn’t put it past Torval to play some sort of trick. Even in the throes of the curse, Torval was shrewd. Hali was popular in the capitol and the God-Emperor knew it. He had tradition, the might of the legions, and the people of the capital on his side. They hailed him as a hero for sparing them the worst of the God-Emperor’s madness. His atrocities, for which there were no excuses, they excused and blamed on his master.

Since Cormane, he had thought only of ending the God-Emperor’s reign. Each day, Sangrithar slipped farther and farther into the abyss. It was dying. It might take months, it might take years, but it was dying. Sangrithar needed saving and salvation was toppling the Pearl Throne. Torval’s power was great, but not infinite. The God Reborn was not a god. If enough joined the resistance, they could save Sangrithar.

The people were ready. They were weary of the God-Emperor and selfish nobles and needed only a beacon to light the way. No matter how it went with him when he faced the God-Emperor, the Devotees were waiting in the wings. Avery was shaping them into a burgeoning resistance, a secret weapon that could walk the streets in broad daylight unseen.

But none of it would matter if the legions didn’t side with them. Without the might of the legions, the resistance would be crushed. To win the legions, he needed the officers and he had a fair idea of which he could count on. High Warden Avery Tavistern’s loyalty went unquestioned. The battlefield hero turned officer was his most trusted ally next to Kaphiri. At the other extreme was Daerycil Belsor, High Warden over the Averchai. Belsor was utterly faithful to Torval. The remaining two High Wardens, Admiral Ivrael Landella, who claimed a trace of Elven blood and Horsemaster Cantalor Fagan had no strong leanings. If it came down to him versus Torval, Hali wasn’t sure who they’d side with.

The ship turned in the Knot and he caught a whiff of lavender cologne. Kaphiri had come on deck. The adjutant had changed into a fresh outfit suitable for Tintammil, the grand hall of the Pearl Throne. In better days, Tintammil had been the heart of the empire, where God-Emperors had entertained visiting kings and queens. Now it was a hall of debauchery where drunken nobles cavorted and statecraft was a forgotten art. “At least the catapults didn’t shoot,” the adjutant quipped.

“Don’t read too much into that. Even Torval knows what it would take to replace Foambreaker. They still might slap chains on me the minute we dock.” After leaving Cormane, he’d told Kaphiri everything. Once the shock wore off, they’d started sketching plans. As soon as they disembarked, he needed to pay Avery a visit and Kaphiri had a list of people to see. They couldn’t dawdle. It wouldn’t take long for the inevitable summons to Tintammil. Even if the God-Emperor hadn’t felt the change in the compulsion, Hali had disobeyed direct orders. They’d prepared for several possibilities, including his death.

Kaphiri clapped him on the shoulder. “Perhaps, unfaithful one, but did you hear that cheer? I don’t think news of your treachery has spread just yet.”

“Let’s hope not.” The ship leaned into a tight turn and he grabbed the rail. Kaphiri easily kept his balance. “The more time the better.”

Foambreaker completed the last turn in the Knot and sailed past the inner gate. Belgrith Harbor was large and shaped like a clam, bounded by mile long escarpments to the east and west, the Knot to the south and a curved northern shore. As usual, fishing boats manned by practitioners of Sangrithar’s oldest and most honored profession bobbed in the water, casting nets and hauling in the day’s catch.

Tributaries of the River Taris formed the northern boundary of the capitol and divided it into districts before emptying into the sea. To the east were the Academy and Guild Districts, the Bazaar and the shipyards. To the north lay the Heights, a residential district, and in the heart of the city were the Plaza and Dynrael Quarter, where Gloryngael, the palace of the God-Emperor, rose in golden splendor. The Plaza of Golden Domes was an open park dotted with walled villas housing Sangrithar’s aristocracy. Near the beach was the Bowl, the name for the crater formed by Thar who was Umbar’s crash. The legions occupied the Left Bank, as the western escarpment was called, but the eastern side was uninhabitable. The only structures there were mausoleums for dead God-Emperors and Priest-Kings. On an island in the harbor was the Temple of the Wave, where Thar who was Umbar’s praises were sung. Many people were crossing the man-made causeway for the morning service.

North and west of the Left Bank was Old Town, where Raena’s village had been. Once, Old Town had been home to Sangrithar’s wealthiest citizens, but it had been in decline since the curse had taken the God-Emperors. A century ago, Torval had built the Coliseum, where gladiator slaves fought to the death. Today, Old Town was mostly slums.

Most prominent in Old Town was Tar-Numerath, a small hill crowned with a thick ring of sycamore trees that hid the summit and the Maiden’s shrine. A pitched, shingled roof supported by columns smooth with age covered Gwynna’s Stones, a ring of rune-covered menhirs in the tradition of the Elder Days’ lost Stones. Gwynna went to Pel Aesylle at the age of eighteen, as promised, to learn about the Maiden. Five years after her return, Sudnar masquerading as the trickster Arcanicles came to Sangrithar and restored Thar who was Umbar’s memories. After he ascended to the Heavens with holy Raena at his side, Gwynna raised the Stones using lore thought lost.

Through her, the people learned the legends and to honor all gods, though Thar who was Umbar and the Maiden held special places in the hearts of Sangritharians. For millennia, people worshipped both equally and then the curse struck. Tormyn Blackheart, son of Arvyl the Dreamer and first to bear the curse, named Thar who was Umbar Sangrithar’s one and only patron. He built the grand Temple of the Wave to raise him up above all others. Knowledge of the Elder Days waned and worship of the Maiden fell to the wayside. In the centuries between Blackheart and Torval Waverider’s ascension to the Pearl Throne, the Maiden’s Devotees had steadily dwindled in number. House Halvyl though, never lost its faith and the compulsion never demanded its surrender. His great-great-grandfather, Harrimin, learned to ward his mind against Blackheart’s intrusions and keep his faith hidden. He passed the secret on to his son.

When Torval claimed the god-fire, he fell victim to the curse, like every ruler before him since Arvyl. The God-Emperor had no tolerance for other faiths or the legends of yesteryear and outlawed the Maiden’s worship entirely. But, much as he might have liked to, Torval could not entirely wipe the existence of other gods from memory. Certain tales were too deeply ingrained. No one would gainsay Finbardin, King of Heaven; mourners knew that loved ones took the Long Walk before coming to Bangal the Rainbow Lord for judgment; criminals thought twice knowing that Celetran, the Lady of Esel, watched from the Firmament, ready to render the gods’ justice; and mothers-to-be took comfort from Lillandra, the Lady of the Hearth, who kept them safe during childbirth as surely as the Vanara marshaled the heavenly hosts for the final battle against Erlik One-Eye and the legions of the night. No one could deny such things, not even the God-Emperor of Sangrithar, but he could and did reincorporate these legends and others into mythology more to his liking.

Using Averchai as his spear, the God-Emperor ruthlessly persecuted the Devotees and forced them into hiding. For more than a century now, they had observed Her rites in secret, wearing masks concealing their true faces whenever they gathered. Newcomers attended unmasked and with sponsors. With time and trust, they earned a mask.

The Devotees prayed alone, or in small groups, gathered in back rooms, basements or secluded parks. On special occasions, they would assemble at the Stones atop Tar-Numerath where the high priestess would lead them in prayer, hidden by the sycamores encircling the shrine. After Cerynna was lost, the mantle of high priestess had passed to Hali’s distant cousin Hermyna Halkannyth. Knowing that Tar-Numerath was often under surveillance, Devotees only prayed at the Stones when it was absolutely called for.

Thank Sudnar, the Averchai were unfamiliar with the Maiden’s holy days. They didn’t know the difference between Jaharnaval and Summer’s Dawn, making the task of eluding them that much easier. Also, Averchai thought the Maiden’s priestesses witches. That, and a slew of ghost stories about the Stones combined to make them afraid to ascend the hill unless High Warden Belsor’s spear tip was egging them on.

Glad to be home, the crew cheered when Foambreaker glided into the berth reserved for the imperial flagship. Dockhands tied off the ship and lowered the gangplank. The wharves were busy. A shipwright and his team were repairing the Saltheart’s extensive storm damage. Two other ships were getting hulls patched and men were loading supplies into the holds of several others. High Warden Ivrael Landella and ten legionnaires waited at the end of the pier to greet him. The admiral wore his customary blue captain’s jacket, a gift from the crew of Imma’s Light’s after his quick thinking saved them from a pirate ambush.

He and Kaphiri clip-clopped down the dock to the admiral. He looked for signs of betrayal, but Ivrael barely paid him any notice. Instead, the admiral’s gaze ran across the hull, up and down the sails, and onto Foambreaker’s deck. Once assured that his precious darling was well, Ivrael, always one to observe protocol and propriety, greeted him with a proper salute. “Good Edda, Lord Warden Halvyl and Master Warden Fellstar.”

A handsome man in his late forties, Ivrael Landella was fine featured with wispy tan hair. He might have Elven blood in him, there was no saying for sure. The wealthy Landellas could trace their lineage back to the time of Arvyl’s Folly, but no farther, as was the case with many of the aristocracy. Many of the earlier records had been lost.

Ivrael clung to protocol like a newborn kitten hanging from a tapestry, making him an uncertain ally. Hali didn’t question Ivrael’s integrity, there was no deception in him, but did question his courage. Anyone could follow orders; it took courage to break ranks. Ivrael served with respect and loyalty and was always the consummate officer, but his need to obey and conform was high. If the God-Emperor ordered Ivrael to raise arms against him, the admiral would likely do as commanded, unless his beloved ships were in jeopardy. Ivrael cherished them more than legionnaires.

“Hail, High Warden Landella,” he replied following the protocol Ivrael initiated. “How goes the fleet?”

Ivrael’s eyes lit up. Nothing gave him more pleasure than talking about his precious ships. As a child, Ivrael had won many regattas. His exasperated father had tried to talk him out of enlisting, but House Landella’s loss had been the fleet’s gain. “All is well, Lord Warden, now that my jewel, Foambreaker, is safely moored. I shouldn’t say so, but I confess to a certain apprehension whenever someone else takes her helm.”

Kaphiri chuckled. Ivrael’s possessiveness had given them more than one brandy-fueled fit of laughter.

He dismounted, handed Avashar’s reins to a waiting legionnaire and turned onto the boardwalk. “No offense taken, Admiral Landella. Truth be told, you’re the finest captain in the fleet.” That was the truth. Any ship he captained would win its battle. His shortcoming was lack of planning before pulling anchor.

Ivrael blushed at the compliment. “Things have progressed nicely since you left, Lord Warden. Saltheart’s repairs,” he nodded at the ship next to Foambreaker, “are nearly complete. She should be seaworthy by the end of the month. The Blue Dolphin, The Song of Calisende and Forge of the Sea set sail while you were away, under the command of Master Warden Hubert, and Edda’s Morn led twelve ships to Colcester.”

“Colcester?” he shouted over shipwrights’ hammers.

“Have you forgotten, Lord Warden? Next month is the University’s five hundredth anniversary. It should be a grand celebration. I was thinking of attending myself.”

He was so preoccupied that he had forgotten. He and Ivrael had discussed this before he’d left for Cormane. A coastal city, Colcester was not part of the Sangritharian Empire, which surrounded it on all sides. Colcester was home to the University, a mecca of learning attracting scholars and sages from all of Fanar, and a tiny kingdom unto itself. Before becoming Lord Warden, he’d studied sundry arts there and learned lore the God-Emperor had banned. At Colcester, he’d learned he had no talent for sorcery and Kaphiri had learned to fear it. “Twelve? I thought we’d agreed on two?”

The High Warden licked his lips nervously. “Aye, Lord Warden. I received new orders … from the Pearl Throne.”

“Oh?” An squawking gull landed in front of him. Its beak darted back and forth on a long neck, a winged warrior defending its piece of boardwalk.

Ivrael circled past the gull. “Five days ago, after two ships had set sail for Colcester, a page delivered new orders from the God-Emperor. The Divine One said two ships were an insult to Colcester. He bid me send ten more and an apology to the Head Master.”

“I see.” He wondered if there were hidden meaning in this seemingly simple gesture. These orders had come after he’d left Cormane. As a youth, Torval had traveled extensively and been a skilled ambassador. After the madness overwhelmed him, he cared little for diplomacy.

Ivrael stood at attention. “Did I do well, Lord Warden?” Proper execution of orders was paramount to Ivrael, a habit picked up from his fastidious father.

He saluted. “Yes you did, High Warden. We live to serve the God-Emperor, do we not?” He’d said that many times. Today it made him cringe. For the first time, it was not true. He did not live to serve Torval. His duty was to the people of Sangrithar. His broken bond with the God-Emperor would never mend.

“Of course, Lord Warden,” Ivrael handed him a scroll sealed with the God-Emperor’s symbol , the Eye of Sangrithar, a seven pointed star with an eye in the center. “A page delivered it this morning for you. If I might hazard a guess, Lord Warden, I’d say the God-Emperor desires you in Tintammil.”

“Really? Whatever gave you that idea?” Kaphiri said lazily. He often responded to the admiral’s formality with sarcasm. Ivrael’s lack of humor frustrated him. “You didn’t open it, did you?”

Ivrael straightened his shoulders. “I – I would never. As you can plainly see, Master Warden Fellstar, it is still sealed.”

“Thank you, Admiral, I’m sure it is.” He warned Kaphiri with a finger and quickly scanned the scroll. As expected, he’d been ordered to Tintammil. He always reported to the God-Emperor after returning from campaign, but the second order was out of the ordinary. The God-Emperor had requested Kaphiri too. Torval rarely saw the High Wardens, let alone a lowly Master Warden. “The God-Emperor does indeed wish to see me, and you as well, Kaphiri.”

“Me?” The adjutant’s jaw dropped.

He chuckled despite the circumstances. Kaphiri wasn’t often surprised. “That’s what the orders say.”

“Very good, sir.” Ivrael beamed, pleased that he’d guessed correctly. “Now, as I was saying, a dozen ships are on their way to in Colcester. I can provide a more detailed report if you’d like, Lord Warden.”

If he allowed it, Ivrael would recite the status of every ship in the fleet, taking hours he couldn’t spare. He held up the imperial orders. “If I only had the time. Is High Warden Tavistern in the Keep?”

“I believe so, Lord Warden.”

They’d reached the stairs leading to the Warden’s Keep, which was as far as the admiral would go. His quarters were here, at the bottom of the escarpment near his beloved ships. “Thank you, High Warden Landella. After Tintammil I’ll hear your full report. Master Warden Fellstar, come with me.”

Kaphiri shook his head. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Ivrael stared in disbelief at what he perceived as insubordination. The admiral would never dare disobey an order, although Hali hadn’t meant it as one.

“I have someone … I mean something to attend to.” The adjutant winked.

They’d discussed this, but he still had misgivings. Separating at this juncture was dangerous, but if anyone could take care of himself, it was Kaphiri. His friend always found time for himself, away from the legions, the palace and the intrigue. He walked the streets out of uniform, an everyman, charming every man into friend and every woman into would-be lover. If this was their last day in Sangrithar, he would not keep Kaphiri from his waiting maiden. “The God-Emperor cannot be put off for long.”

Kaphiri’s shrug said not to worry. “I’ll meet you in Tintammil at the top of Imma’s Watch.”

That should give him enough time. “Very well, Master Warden Fellstar,” he said for Ivrael’s benefit, “but don’t be late, no matter how much she sobs. We don’t want to keep the God-Emperor waiting. Thank you for your help, Admiral Landella.”

After climbing two hundred feet of steep stairs, he stopped to catch his breath. Barracks, officer’s quarters, warehouses, smithies and practice facilities covered the plateau atop the Left Bank. He lived in the Warden’s Keep, the large stone fortress overlooking the harbor and serving as the legions’ headquarters. A simple, square building, it had survived many of Umbar’s savage storms. His chambers occupied the harbor side of the top floor, giving him unobstructed views to the open sea beyond the Knot and the capitol’s interior. They were thinly furnished. Cymara had decorated the house they’d shared with Halivan and after their death, picking out wall tapestries or rugs held little interest.

Each High Warden had quarters too, though only Avery used them regularly. The Admiral preferred his cottage by the docks, Belsor never strayed far from the God-Emperor and the Keep was the last place you’d catch Fagan. Even with a wife and two young daughters, the Horsemaster spent most nights partying with Count Auberc. As his adjutant, Kaphiri had quarters in the Keep too, but you’d have better chances beating loaded dice than finding him there three nights running.

He entered Tavistern’s office where a waiting aide clutched a clipboard. “Please tell the High Warden I’m here.”

The blonde legionnaire, Hali couldn’t remember his name, knocked on the inner door. “High Warden Tavistern? The Lord Warden is here, sir.”

“Well by all means, Tyrias, send him in. Then, head into town and pick up that package from Baricles.” The aide swung open the door to Avery’s office.

Sunbeams streaming through windows bathed the room in golden light. A well worn leather couch lent the chamber the pleasant smell of a cobbler’s workroom. Several chairs were scattered about. The High Warden sat behind a desk covered with mementos from a long and illustrious career. A spear tip, a sword hilt wrapped in leather, a broken helm and a tattered standard embroidered with the Eye of Sangrithar were some of his souvenirs. A sword decorated with scrollwork was mounted on the wall, next to a plaque displaying medals Avery had won over the years.

The balding, heavy-set man got up and hobbled over. The wood prosthetic attached to his knee made a hollow knocking sounded when he walked.

Avery Tavistern had enlisted at a young age and never looked back. His only family was the legions. He’d fought with valor, distinguished himself on the battlefield and displayed a knack for strategy. By thirty-one, he’d made Master Warden and went east to contain the barbarians spilling in from Angrakor. He took a poisoned spear in the calf and by the time the physicians could attend him, it was too late. They cut off his leg just below the knee.

That should have ended his military career, but Hali hadn’t wanted to lose Avery. In decades of leading the legions, Tavistern’s grasp of tactics was the best he’d come across. Thinking a one-legged legionnaire a sure recipe for taking the Long Walk, Avery had tendered his resignation. The poison had taken more than Avery’s leg. It had taken his self-respect.

Hali had torn up Avery’s request and begged him stay on. Avery’s talent was worth a thousand swordsmen, but he’d despaired until Hali introduced him to the Maiden. Avery found comfort from the Maiden, comfort and purpose. He stayed in the legions and became a Devotee. When the time came, Hali gave Avery his mask, a copper one with a Grush’s face. After High Warden Falduri died, Hali had been quick to name Avery to replace him over the infantry. When Belsor’s predecessor objected, he’d conceded the irony of a one-legged infantry commander, but held to his decision. He didn’t need Avery in the front rank.

In saving Avery, he did more than preserve a promising officer’s career; he made a lifelong friend. His support gave the young Avery hope and strength to go on living. Avery never forgot and their friendship had deepened over the years. Next to Kaphiri, he trusted Avery most.

Avery had also risen among the Devotees. Hermyna was content with spiritual leadership so, with her blessing, they’d hailed the heavy set man in the copper Grush mask as lay leader for the past decade. Avery led a secret army whose numbers were growing for the first time in memory. Longstanding Devotees knew one another unmasked, allowing Avery to organize the congregation quickly.

Leading both the Devotees and the infantry provided Avery huge advantages. While hunting Devotees was the sole purview of the Averchai, policing the capitol was a responsibility shared with the infantry, and the duty the Averchai enjoyed least. The God-Emperor’s elite guard considered themselves above such work and manipulating the schedule whenever services were held atop Tar-Numerath was child’s play for him.

Hali closed the door and glanced over the sunlit room. “We’re alone?”

“We are now. It’ll take Tyrias several hours to fetch my chocolates. I hear he’s fond of Baricles’ daughter.”

He laughed and pulled up a chair while Avery took refuge on the couch. “Then it’s safe to talk?”

Avery nodded. “The wards are up. Whatever is said here will stay here.”

Avery’s small skill as a wizard was a well kept secret. Hali took him at his word, up to a point. The wards would stop a hedge wizard; they might even prevent the spells of a true wizard, such as the purple-robed Endiron, but wouldn’t shield them from the God-Emperor. Claims of divinity aside, there was no denying the God-Emperor’s power. He could tear the tops off mountains, freeze a man in his tracks with a glance, or turn back a tidal wave.

Out of habit, he lowered his voice. “Good. This is not meant for others.”

Avery rumpled his nose, a sure sign that he was worried. “What happened in Cormane, Hali? The rumors are running wild.” Avery called him by name when they weren’t in public, which was a welcome change after Ivrael’s formality.

“For how long? What are they saying?” They’d left Cormane the next day and come home straight away under good sail. No messenger could have reached the capitol before Foambreaker.

“No one’s quite sure. Only that the God-Emperor’s in a foul mood and it has something to do with you. I sent for Ordalli, but no one’s seen him since the ship docked. How did the bastard do?”

“He did his job, albeit more … zealously than necessary.”

“That’s his way. I warned you. How many infantry did he get killed?”

“No more than if you’d led the attack. The Cormaners paid for his cruelty, not the legions.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Hali. Now tell me what you did to set off Torval. You know how is he is when he’s like this.”

His eyes lit like sapphires. “You should have seen them, Avery! Those poor people in Cormane. They had nothing. We burned their fields, killed their men and for what? A bag of coin! They were so defeated. The look in their eyes … it was haunting. But their leader, Baron Xander Lessari, I have never met a more noble man. He claimed responsibility for his people. He cared for them like they were his children.”

Avery twirled a serpentine steel dagger that had been lying on the desk. “This isn’t the first time. Many innocents have suffered the God-Emperor’s justice at our hands. I’ll never forget what happened in Tanylcar.”

His signet ring caught a sunbeam. “I had every intention of collecting the God-Emperor’s due, but this time it was different. I … I couldn’t. I forgave Xander the tithe.”

Avery’s nose rumpled. “You defied the God-Emperor! How? I thought …”

“It was the baron’s son. A cute tow-headed boy, not more than five years old.” He stared down at the floor and dropped to a whisper. “He begged me to help and I … I couldn’t refuse him. He reminded me of my son.”

Avery dropped the dagger. “Your son? I never knew you had a son. All these years, you and I. I never knew.”

He didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t like talking about those times. “His name was Halivan. It was long ago. I was young then.”

“What happened?” Avery’s wooden leg tapped nervously against the floor, sounding like an innkeeper opening a keg.

“He and his mother, they … took the Long Walk.” The report Kaphiri submitted said that Cymara and Halivan had been attacked by Skulfs, horrid creatures, part wolf and part Scarag. That part was true. The whole report had been accurate, erring only by way of omission. Those Skulfs had not been ordinary Skulfs; Kaphiri had seen them in action and was sure of it. Then too, there was that lingering scent of sandalwood …

Avery looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m sorry, Hali. I can tell you miss them still.”

“Every day.”

“Is that why you never married? You’re still in love with her.” Avery knew him better than he realized. “You’re the last of your line, the last of House Halvyl. The last of the Lord Wardens. You should have an heir.”

He looked out over the bustling compound. Legionnaires went about their duties as if the day held nothing special. “If we succeed, Sangrithar will not need her Lord Warden.” He’d been afraid to love again, fearful of giving Torval another weapon. “When I saw Xandrachaeus, the baron’s son, it was like seeing Halivan again.

“But how did you escape the compulsion?”

“I realized that Xandrachaeus and his father are Sangrithar’s hope. They are our future, not the God-Emperor. Xander burns bright. He reminded me of what we once were and what we could become. In his son, I saw the innocence of youth and eternal optimism.” He allowed a small smile of pride. “It was simple, really. So simple that I would have seen it long ago, had the traditions of my office not blinded me. I was taught to serve the Pearl Throne. I thought this meant serving the God-Emperor, but I was mistaken. Ataryl charged us to serve the people, not the God-Emperor. All these years, I’ve been blind to the compulsion’s true purpose, but no more. That’s why the Maiden’s obligations never triggered it. She poses no threat to the people.”

He pounded his fist on the desk. “Torval has led us astray. He does not deserve my loyalty – none since Arvyl have! Our once proud nation is at the mercy of his mad whims and decadent aristocrats drowning in a cesspool of debauchery. The people are tired and hungry. Roads once paved in gold are no longer fit for Grush-pulled carts. The stench in the capitol is unbearable. It must stop! For the sake of our nation, the reign of the God-Emperor must end. I know Sangrithar can be saved and the Lessaris showed me she’s worth saving. The God-Emperor has no hold on me. For the first time, I am free! Free to liberate Sangrithar from the tyrant.”

Avery looked happier than he had in a long time. “The Maiden has smiled upon you, Hali! You’ve done the impossible. The … the God-Emperor must know.”

“I wasn’t sure, but the foul mood you described clinches it. He must have sensed something. Even if he didn’t, by now our friend Ordalli will have told him I forgave the tithe. He will not be happy with that decision.”

Avery grinned; they shared a common view of Master Warden Jafal Ordalli. The son of a street whore, Ordalli was a cruel man suffering from fear of failure and rejection, which he experienced all too often. He took out his frustrations on those with no power to oppose him. “He must have been livid.”

He chuckled too, remembering Ordalli’s scowl on the voyage home. “That’s an understatement. Had it been up to him, we’d have left only scorched earth in Cormane.”

Avery arched an eyebrow. “If the God-Emperor knows of your infidelity, then why haven’t the Averchai arrested you?”

“As mad as he is, Torval is no fool. He won’t show his hand until he has to. I’ll see him soon enough. I’ve been summoned to Tintammil.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” Avery poured two brandies.

He swirled the liquor before sipping. “As much as he’d like to see me dead, he won’t execute me. He might kill me on a whim, but not a planned execution. The people would be slow to forgive him. Is that wrong of me to say?”

“It’s the truth. You’re their hero, their Lord Warden. You have kept them from the worst of it.”

“Not everyone feels that way.”

“Those who know you know the truth.”

If only everyone felt as Avery did. “I think he’ll exile me so I’m no one’s martyr. The Vizier will caution him not to act rashly. Praise Deridean that Maelryn still has his ear. He’s the only voice of reason Torval listens to. He’s wrung so many concessions, I shudder to think where we’d be without him.”

“Where will you go?” Avery glanced at the map of Fanar on the wall. The Sangritharian Empire occupied the western half of the continent. South of Fanar, separated by the Straits of Rabyn, lay Tyrnavalle, an almost rectangular sub-continent a quarter of Fanar’s size.

“To be honest, I’m not sure, wherever I can raise the best army. Maybe Endiron or Jeheris. I can promise you this. When I return, I’ll rip Thar’s necklace from the God-Emperor’s neck if I have to. Torval may think my exile will end his problems, but it won’t. I’ll gather my strength and then, when the time is right, strike. And that, my friend, is where you come in.”

“Tell me what I can do, Hali.” Avery clasped his hand. “I am your man.”

His gaze held Avery’s rapt attention. “I knew I could count on you, Avery. While I’m away, ready the Devotees. Seek out more of like mind and spirit and enlist them in our cause. Swell our ranks. Many oppose the God-Emperor. Many believe he has betrayed his sacred trust. Find them and await my return.”

Avery saluted with the Devotee’s clenched fists. “I am honored, my Lord Warden. The people are ready. They will flock to your banner.”

“There is another possibility,” he added, as much as he didn’t want to. “The God-Emperor may kill me.”

“Let’s not talk about that, old friend.”

“Either way, it doesn’t change things. The people must rise against the God-Emperor. If I’m slain, then use my death as a catalyst to lead them. I will watch from the Blessed Kingdom if I must.” he said. “Regardless, the God-Emperor has long desired the legions. Whether I am imprisoned, dead or exiled, he’ll assume command and my known associates will fall under suspicion.”

Avery gulped. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

In the past Avery had few audiences with the God-Emperor, but that would change “His mere presence can crumble your will. His thoughts can invade yours and reveal your deepest secrets. You must make him believe you are his loyal servant. You can never let him know the truth. Never let him know you are a Devotee. He’d kill you where you stand.”

Avery trembled. “But I am nothing before him.”

He placed his hands on Avery’s forehead. “You are the first to learn this secret outside of my house. You have no noble blood, but you are a wizard. Let us hope it is enough.”

He remembered when his father had showed him the trick. He’d never had the chance to share it with Halivan. He stared deep into Avery’s eyes. “Let me in.”

He thrust his will inside Avery’s mind and cast about until he found it. “There,” he thought. “Can you feel it?”

Avery nodded.

He tore his mind from Avery’s and was himself again. Several minutes had passed. He was sweating. “That is the place he cannot see. That is your light. The shadow in him cannot abide it. Keep your secrets there and he can’t get to them. Can you do that?”

Avery was sweating also. “I think so.”

“You need to win over as many legions as you can. Find out if the Admiral or Fagan will join our cause, but don’t waste your time with Belsor. He’s sworn to the throne, body and soul. The other two may listen to reason. Ivrael is a trifle stiff, but a decent man, if you can just get through to him. The Horsemaster is a different story. Approach him with caution; I don’t like the company he’s been keeping.”

Avery kissed the signet ring of House Halvyl, a golden band of kelp set with a sapphire surrounded by emeralds. Crafted by Ataryl for his son, it had been handed down over the generations. “It shall be as you command, Lord Warden. Soon the Maiden’s kiss shall touch the lips of all who live in Sangrithar. May the City of the Golden Star shine once more!”

He twisted the ring. “A better friend, I cannot imagine, Avery. You have done so much already, but I have to beg one more favor. Watch out for Celle. Keep her safe. The God-Emperor would use her to get to me. Promise you won’t let that happen.”

Avery made the sign of the Devotees again. “By the Maiden, I swear it Hali. I’d give my life to save hers.”

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. When you see Celle, fill her in. She will prove a valuable ally. Torval ignores her, but she is empress and has resources he does not suspect.” He’d put a heavy burden on Avery. “I must go. The longer I wait, the angrier Torval will be.”

They hugged, old friends knowing they might never see one another again. “Farewell, Hali. You’ll be in my thoughts and prayers. May the Maiden’s kiss bless you, may the Explorer watch your path and may the Luck of Sudnar keep you safe.”

He left the Warden’s Keep and made his way north. He decided to walk, not ride, to Gloryngael. This might be his last time in the city and he wanted to savor it. He marched across the compound first and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The clash of steel on steel from legionnaires drilling on the practice fields rang in his ears. Thick curls of smoke rose from forges where blacksmiths produced swords, armor, tools and ship parts demanded by the legions. Beans, fish and garlic smells came from the mess hall and every passing legionnaire saluted him. He visited the stables and said good-bye to Avashar.

When passing into Old Town, he caught sight of Tar-Numerath and wished he could pay respects to the Maiden. The streets were alive. A crowd was starting to arrive for the convicted thief who would fight for his life later that afternoon in the Coliseum. A silk garbed courtesan, midriff bare to show her wares, stood on a nearby corner with hoops of gold dangling from her ears to attract customers like worms on a hook. An off duty legionnaire beat a pot bellied man to the prize and dragged her down an alley after fishing a silver from his pouch. Across the way, a vendor haggled with a woman inside a veiled litter carried by oiled slaves. A ceramic vase, glazed with rainbow stripes was the object in dispute. The vendor asked an outrageous price and the litter moved on. The owner of the vase, a pudgy man with a beak for a nose, chased down the litter and begged the occupant to reconsider. Then a rickety wagon pulled by a team of Grush, shaggy creatures with large horns and gentle dispositions, turned onto the street and blocked his view.

The smell of roast goat wafted from The Golden Whale, his favorite tavern, masking the awful stench from the alleys. Gestarre Redhook, the current owner, often treated him to free meals in exchange for boasting rights. His stomach grumbled with hunger, but he was expected in Tintammil.

He headed east against the flow of traffic and crossed the River Taris into the Plaza of Golden Domes using the Ardwynn Bridge. The oldest and wealthiest noble houses called Dynrael Quarter home, but many nobles with bought titles or of lesser descent lived here. Conditions in the Plaza were far superior to those in Old Town. The bricks paving the streets still glittered on sunny days and the golden domed mansions and walled estates always amazed first time visitors. As magnificent as the Plaza seemed at a glance, the veneer of splendor could not withstand scrutiny. Once gleaming towers shone dully, tattered pennants streamed from the towers’ highest reaches and the perfumed oils burning in wrought-iron lampposts could not entirely mask the fishmongers’ stale odors.

As he entered the Plaza, an ornate litter passed bearing the symbol of Count Vand Auberc, leader of the noble faction content with Torval’s crazed rule. From behind the litter’s veil, he heard the Count talking with someone whose voice Hali recognized as belonging to Olantor, the Marquis of Videssyn. Not that long ago, both families had bought their way into the nobility. Neither, as far as he was concerned, possessed a drop of noble blood.

Vand Auberc was a silver-haired, handsome man who dressed in black and favored three-cornered, plumed hats. A man who could stir feelings, Auberc had attracted a large crowd of nobles with similar self-indulgent tastes. He possessed the olive complexion of the masses, predatory grey eyes and an aquiline nose. Thin and of less than average height, he moved like a great cat of the jungle.

His companion in the litter was his opposite in every regard. Tall and overweight, the balding Marquis’s bug-like eyes, permanently bloodshot from years of heavy drinking, bulged out from a too narrow face pale from lack of sun. The third member of their triumvirate, Lord Raynard Barginali, the Marquis of Lorvale, was either not with them or uncharacteristically quiet.

On the far side of the Bowl, a lone figure leaned against one of the statues circling the crater. In a grassy area to the north, a group of well-dressed, fair-skinned children were playing catch under the supervision of a matronly woman and at the shore olive-toned waifs swam in the surf.

He lingered at the edge of the Bowl. The location of Thar who was Umbar’s landing was immune to the ravages of time and thousands of years later you could still see his outline. He and Cymara, like thousands before and after them, had crept to the bottom under the light of the three moons. Officially, there were laws against this, but they were not enforced. Torval thought these trysts offerings to his divinity. Some thought passing the god-fire to the next God-Emperor required proximity to the Bowl, but this was a guess. The ritual of transference was a closely held secret.

The figure leaning against the statue appeared to be a beggar, which he found strange. In other districts, poor were common, but the Plaza was heavily patrolled and kept clear of riff raff. The next moment, a dozen legionnaires came around the corner of the mansion belonging to Signor Pelthane Orvandal, a merchant noble of Endiron descent and one of the few nobles Hali respected. One legionnaire noticed him, or more accurately his cloak and breastplate, and saluted before marching past.

His instinct was to bring the beggar to the patrol’s attention, but he was intrigued. He kept his tongue, waited until the patrol was out of sight and made his way towards the statue. The beggar was gone. He circled the statue and saw no trace of him. He heard the slight shuffle of leather on cobblestone coming from behind and spun around. The beggar was back and leaning on a different statue wearing a mischievous grin. His slanted eyes and pointed ears could only belong to an Elf.

Before the curse, Sangrithar opened its gates to the Fair Folk and entertained many Elven visitors. There was peace and commerce between the two people. The Priest-Kings and after them, the God-Emperors, sent heirs to the throne to Pel Aesylle according to the old bargain between Thar who was Umbar and the Kandol Elf Lord. That is, they did until Kandol detected the curse festering in Tormyn Blackheart and cut his fostering short. Stung by the Elf Lord’s rejection, Tormyn cut all ties to the Fair Folk. Since then, Elves had been infrequent visitors to the capitol. The only Elf seen regularly was Maelryn the Vizier and more recently, his half-brother, Emerre, who had returned to court less than a decade ago after a several century absence.

This Elf wore a tattered grey cloak with a hood bunched around his neck and well-worn leather breeches, a shabby contrast to the Elves Hali had met in his travels. Those had been attired in rich garments woven from gold and silver thread and walked with grace the louts in Tintammil could only dream of. This Elf looked no better off than one of Sangrithar’s street rats. His hair was unkempt and he smelled of rotting fish. For a moment, he saw metal glinting beneath his cloak, but when the wind blew it aside, there was no blade hanging from the Elf’s waist.

Though the Elf had obviously seen better times, he still possessed his people’s natural grace. The old ones born before the Reckoning sparkled with auras of light, but this one didn’t. More likely, he was one of the younger ones, but with the Fair Folk it was hard to tell. Brown curls hung over his forehead and russet eyes twinkled in amusement. Most amazingly, the Elf was missing an arm. The Fair Folk had great recuperative powers. Only the gravest injury could have taken his limb.

“It’s an old wound,” the Elf noticed him looking and winked. “Pay it no mind. I don’t.” He spoke perfect Sangritharian.

He believed the beggar. Something about him suggested hidden strength.

The Elf bowed. “Good Edda, fine sir and may the Maiden’s kiss bless you and yours.”

He bowed in return and brought his clenched fists together in the sign of the Devotees, knowing that the Fair Folk loved the Maiden well. “Good Edda to you as well, Master Elf. What brings you to the City of the Golden Star? We don’t often see your kind here.”

The Elf snorted. “Humak’s Horns, of course not! My people haven’t been welcome in a very long time. Your rulers have made that quite clear.”

That was certainly direct. He would reciprocate. The Elf had not used Torval’s title. God-Emperor was rather presumptuous for people that had lived and loved and laughed with the gods. “Let me assure you, Master Elf, Torval’s opinion does not stand for every Sangritharian. I, for one, am a Devotee.”

“I’m glad to hear it, kind sir. The old ways should not be forgotten.” The Elf’s twinkling eyes held him fast. “That which is dead may live again.”

The back of his neck crawled. The Elf’s words made n sense, but they were important. He’d stake his life on it. “What did you say?”

The Elf ignored him, as if he’d said nothing of consequence. “Might I ask a favor, kind stranger?”

Too much time had passed since Fair Folk had found kindness in the City of the Golden Star. He would like to help this strange Elf. “Certainly, Master Elf!”

“I have traveled far and have no food.”

He stuffed silver coins into the Elf’s hand. “See that cart?” He pointed to a vendor across the Plaza selling sausage. “You can fill your belly there.

The Elf shook his head. “My coin is no good. Nor yours, if it comes from my hand.”

His cheeks flared in anger. “What do you mean?”

The Elf shrugged.

“What did he say? Don’t worry … I’ll straighten him out.”

He started towards the sausage cart, but the Elf grabbed his shoulder. His grip was strong. “No, please … I don’t want a scene.”

He stopped. “As you wish, Master Elf. I apologize for your treatment. Once upon a time, you’d have been received like royalty. Shamefully, few remember what we owe your people, but not everyone has forgotten. Cross into Old Town and seek The Golden Whale. Tell Master Gestarre that Lord Warden Hali sent you and he’ll fill your belly.”

The Elf cocked an eyebrow. “Lord Warden Hali? Is that a title of importance?”

His mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Once perhaps, but no longer. It matters little, titles are overrated.”

“Humak’s Horns,” the Elf snorted. “Titles say nothing about a person. It is deeds that count.”

“Well then, Master Elf, it seems the Luck of Sudnar is with me. If I’m still alive by Olla’s Watch, I won’t have a title.” He gazed wistfully at Gloryngael’s spires rising across the plaza.

The Elf’s eyes twinkled. “That wouldn’t be so bad, Lord Warden. Hali fits you better.”

He liked this Elf. “You know my name, Master Elf. What shall I call you?”

The Elf shrugged again, this time in wry acceptance. “I have no name, at least none that matters. Humak’s Horns, it’s been so long even I don’t remember.”

He started to press the Elf and thought better of it. If the Elf wished to keep his name secret, then so be it. He had no business prying. “As you wish, Master Elf.”

The Elf looked right and then left before whispering. “Thank you for your kindness, Hali. I shall not forget it, but I do have one more favor to beg. Our meeting must remain secret. Tell no one. I have powerful enemies who would pay much to learn my whereabouts.”

He laughed silently. The poor Elf must be delusional. Perhaps the loss of his arm had affected his mind. He couldn’t imagine this wretched beggar having powerful enemies. “Have no fear, Master Elf. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Swear it,” the Elf insisted, his eyes no longer twinkling. “Swear it on Humak’s nearly forgotten Horns.”

What a strange oath, he mused. Best known as the Maiden’s brother, the Beast Lord held dominion over the animal kingdom. “Very well, Master Elf. By Humak’s Horns, I swear it. I will tell no one of our meeting.”

From somewhere on the Plaza, a dog bayed, as if the Beast Lord were accepting his promise. The Elf relaxed. “Thank you, Hali. And now, let me offer some advice. Truth is elusive. Things are seldom as they appear and real truth lies beneath the surface. Only by looking through shadow will you find it. Only then will allies become enemies and enemies become allies.”

A voice hailed him from behind. “Lord Warden!”

He turned and saw the legionnaire that had saluted. “Yes?”

“My orders are to escort you to Tintammil, Lord Warden.” The legionnaire spoke in a low voice while staring at the ground. He seemed extremely uncomfortable.

Solare burn him! This was an insult, but it was not the legionnaire’s fault. He would save his anger for others. “That won’t be necessary. Return to your unit. That’s an order!”

“Yes, Lord Warden!” The soldier trotted back towards Ardwynn’s Bridge, happy to be relieved of his orders.

He turned back, but the Elf was gone.