A Rising Moon Read online

  Pashtuk took two steps toward the draoi. Carefully, deliberately, he spat in the man’s face. “Did you think you could kill a god?” he asked the man, his voice raised again so most of those in the temple could hear him.

  “I almost did,” the man answered in heavily accented Mundoan—from the northern clans, Altan decided. This shouldn’t have happened . . . “Release me, and I will show you how easy it is. Or is the god Pashtuk afraid?”

  With that last challenge, Altan saw Pashtuk step forward, taking the draoi’s bearded chin in his left hand and lifting it. His right hand slid a thin dagger from a sheath on his belt. More a ceremonial weapon than a practical one, Altan saw, the hilt studded with jewels, the blade thin and narrow enough that it would likely snap or shatter if struck hard. But the point was sharp and its edge keen: without hesitation, Pashtuk plunged the blade into the draoi’s throat and yanked it hard sideways. The draoi’s eyes went wide, and he gave a gasp that was liquid with blood. His body shuddered in the grasp of the soldiers as Pashtuk thrust the knife deeper. Blood drooled from his mouth, the desperate gasping for air turned to a gurgling sigh, and the man went limp.

  Pashtuk pulled the dagger from the dead man as the soldiers struggled to keep the body upright. He casually wiped the blade on the draoi’s cloak, though he didn’t sheath it. “Take the body away,” he told the soldiers. “Impale it on the city gates and leave it there for the crows.”

  As they dragged away the corpse, Pashtuk faced the now-silent crowd. “I am the One-God’s visible body in this life,” he said. “The One-God blesses those who love Him.” He paused and lifted the dagger toward the apex of the dome. “Those who would oppose Him are given what they deserve. So tell me, do you love Him or not?”

  The crowd answered with a roar that beat against Altan’s chest like a physical blow, a cheer that sent the pigeons perched along the balconies of the dome flying. Pashtuk stood still and silent, as if absorbing their adulation, then sheathed the dagger with a sudden motion.

  “You’ve seen the One-God’s will here today,” he said. “Let that be a warning to any who oppose us.”

  * * *

  Altan was hardly surprised when Emperor Pashtuk requested his presence in the wake of the assassination attempt at the Great Temple. Tolga fussed over him, changing his torn and bloodied clothing, cleaning the worst of the cuts and scrapes, and wrapping his knee before letting him go to the emperor’s chambers. Altan could feel his body growing increasingly stiff and sore in the wake of the activity, and he was limping heavily by the time he reached the emperor’s wing of the palace and was escorted in. Two hands of years ago, you’d have shrugged it off. The years and the battle scars are taking what’s due them.

  The attendant opened the door to the emperor’s reception chamber—the usual throng waiting their turn in the outer chamber—and as Altan started to make his obeisance toward the dais, Pashtuk waved a hand. “No,” he said, then gestured to one of the attendants in the room. “You—bring the commander a chair, and you two”—with a wave at two of the guards—“help him to his seat.” A chair was quickly brought forward and placed at the foot of the dais, directly in front of Pashtuk, still attired as he had been in the Great Temple, as the guards half carried Altan forward.

  “Thank you, my Emperor,” Altan said as he sat, unable to stop the grimace that twisted his face or the accompanying groan as his right knee bent. “I apologize for what happened. Evidently one or more of the temple guards were negligent.”

  Again Pashtuk waved his hand. “The security of the Great Temple and the city weren’t your direct concern but that of Great-Voice Utka. He tells me that interrogations of the guards whose duty it was to check those entering the temple are already underway. Your personal cohort prevented anything from happening as a result of the temple guards’ obvious failures.”

  A pause. Pashtuk’s gaze held him. “And you, Commander,” he added, “did more than anyone. Great-Voice Utka seems to feel that since Ceanndraoi Voada’s death, the Cateni are little more than a nuisance. Today they appeared to me to be rather more than a simple nuisance. I’d like your opinion as the commander of my forces here in Albann. Please speak freely; I don’t need someone else who’s only willing to tell me what they think I want to hear.”

  Pashtuk leaned back in his cushioned chair. You can’t tell him the truth, as much as you’d like to. . . . You’ve already overstepped your bounds. The banners flanking the dais fluttered in the breeze from the open windows, making the hawks embroidered there seem as if they were flexing their primary feathers to catch an updraft. Altan could see the palace guards at their posts in the room, carefully not looking at him or the emperor, but he knew they were listening and that whatever he said here would eventually find its way to Great-Voice Utka’s ears—and when Pashtuk finished his tour of his Albann province and returned to Rumeli, it would be Great-Voice Utka that Altan would have to deal with as his immediate superior. He chose his words carefully and slowly, trying to blend truth with diplomacy and lies of omission knowing that this wasn’t his strength.

  “We’ve largely restored order to Albann Deas since Voada’s rebellion,” he said. “Great-Voice Utka isn’t wrong there. But above the River Meadham, as was the case before Voada, we control very little. No, let me be blunt: above the Meadham, we control nothing at all. The clan àrds still rule the north, and the island of Onglse still harbors Ceanndraoi Greum Red-Hand and his draoi. And . . .” Altan shifted in his chair, and his knee and shoulder both protested the movement; he muffled the resulting groan as much as possible. “We know that the Mad Draoi Voada had a daughter: Orla. She’d been forcibly married to one of my lower officers who died at the Battle of Siran, which unfortunately wasn’t reported to me until well after the battle. Orla fled the army encampment near Siran the day after the battle. I’ve learned that she crossed the Meadham into Albann Bràghad. Since then, there are only rumors of her.”

  “Rumors?” Pashtuk said. His head tilted slightly as if inviting Altan to elaborate.

  “We have spies in a few of the clans she stayed with initially, and the tale is that she moved west and north toward Onglse. The rumors also say that she has the gift of seeing ghosts that her mother had—as all draoi supposedly do—but that she didn’t appear to have an anamacha with her when she passed through. But those are only rumors and tales. I’ve had no hard evidence as yet.”

  “But you believe these rumors?” Pashtuk put decided emphasis on the word.

  “‘Believe’ is too strong a word. I worry about the rumors, my Emperor. I worry that the daughter of the Mad Draoi is someone around whom the northern Cateni might rally. I worry that she might become a draoi, as her mother was.” I worry that she could potentially replace Greum Red-Hand, which would ruin everything I’ve tried to set up.

  “Do you think what happened today had anything to do with this woman?”

  Altan shook his head quickly. “No, I don’t believe so. Today . . . well, that merely showed that there are still embers in the ashes of the rebellion Voada started and that we must be careful to stamp those out when we find them.”

  “And how can we be sure those embers are finally made cold, Commander?”

  Pashtuk’s eyes narrowed with the question, his gaze intent on Altan. Ah, that’s what he really wants me to answer. Do I give him the truth or not?

  “As I’ve told you before, my Emperor, I’m a poor diplomat. A good one would give you either a clever evasion or—as you said—tell you what you wish to hear.”

  A smile seemed to lurk in Pashtuk’s oiled and coiffed beard. “And what is it that I want to hear, Commander?”

  “That the embers of the rebellion are nearly cold now, that today was an unfortunate and entirely unusual flare that will never occur again, and that all we need do is continue what we’re doing.”

  “And the reality, as you see it?”

  “That fire in the Cateni m
ight never die, my Emperor, unless and until we have brought all their clans under our control and their draoi, especially, are destroyed forever.” Or . . . But he couldn’t tell Pashtuk the other option. Not yet.

  “Spoken like a soldier,” Pashtuk commented. His finger stroked his beard. “And can you accomplish that?”

  Altan shook his head. “Not with the troops I have. Give me at least another two full armies, and perhaps.” And with that, I might even change my current plans.

  “You ask for much.”

  “You’ve asked me to speak frankly, my Emperor, and the truth is that you’ve never seen their warriors in battle nor experienced what their draoi can do. Nor has Great-Voice Utka, as yet. I have, many times. It will take that much to quell the Cateni. It might even take more.”

  Pashtuk nodded as if taking in what Altan had said. “I’ll consider your words, Commander.” He started to rise, and Altan hurriedly began to push himself from the chair, but Pashtuk gestured for him to remain. “I can see that you’ve injured yourself protecting me, Commander. Please remain sitting, and I’ll have my personal archiater sent in to see what she can do to ease your pain. She’s very skilled with potions and salves, as I can testify. I’m grateful to you, Altan Savas, for having been there today, for not hesitating to act, and for your honest appraisal of the situation. I’m starting to suspect that the judgments regarding you that were related to me are in error. We’ll talk again, I promise.”

  With that, the emperor nodded to Altan and stepped down from the dais, already handing one of his attendants his gilded crown. Even before he’d left the room, Altan saw a woman whose spine was bowed with age enter the chamber, a younger woman behind her carrying a leather satchel. The old woman was Cateni, as most archiaters were. She approached Altan, regarding him with clear, dark eyes that carefully concealed whatever she might be thinking.

  “Let me see that knee, Commander Savas,” she said.

  6

  A Mother’s Touch

  ALL THE TALK WAS about Draoi Frangan MacCraig and his attempted assassination of Emperor Pashtuk, the news taking over a moon to reach Onglse. Most of the gossip was conducted in whispers among the draoi, the menach, and the staff of Bàn Cill—conversations that would abruptly end if Greum Red-Hand entered the room or if someone was heard walking in the corridor outside.

  The other draoi were largely quiet and wary around Orla as well. It was Sorcha who told her what she’d heard about the events in Savur. “I overheard Menach Moire telling one of her acolytes that Draoi Frangan left Onglse not long before your mother was killed,” Sorcha told her as they took their evening meal in an alcove off the common dining hall of the temple. “Ceanndraoi Greum was furious when Draoi Frangan told him he was leaving Onglse and ordered him to stay, but Frangan left anyway, intending to join your mother. He wasn’t the only draoi who left the Red-Hand to join Voada around that time. But the Battle of Siran took place before Frangan could reach her.”

  Orla shivered at that statement, remembering Sorcha’s and her flight from the Mundoan encampment just after Siran. “Frangan stayed in the south afterward?” she asked, and Sorcha nodded, mopping up remnants of the lamb and potato stew with the crust of her bread. Orla’s own serving sat mostly untouched on the small table in front of her, though she’d sipped at the wine and plucked a few pieces of tender lamb from the broth steaming in its bowl. The news from the south, though, was less the reason for her lack of appetite than the fact that it was her moon-time, and her stomach ached from the bleeding. She would have to change the blood cloths soon.

  “Evidently. He never came back here. I suppose when he learned that Emperor Pashtuk was coming, he decided to try to assassinate the man. They say . . .” Orla saw Sorcha shudder as she swallowed her bread. “They say that it was Commander Savas himself who stopped Frangan, killing a hand of those who were with him, and that the emperor had Frangan impaled alive on the city gates for the crows to eat. His skeleton still hangs there.”

  Orla could see Frangan in her imagination, dangling above the city gates with black crows flapping around him like flies on rotten meat, swaying and screaming as the crows pecked at his face and eyes. She felt her stomach churn with the vision, and she quickly set down her spoon. “I’m sorry,” she heard Sorcha whisper. “I shouldn’t have told you. The story may even be a lie, just gossip and rumor. If it did happen, it was several hands of days ago now. There’s nothing Ceanndraoi Greum or anyone here can do.”

  Orla felt a chill along her side: her anamacha touching her. She heard their voices in the same moment. Ethereal laughter followed that statement, and Orla felt the cold withdraw from her, the anamacha gleaming in the dimness of the alcove.

  “That’s certainly true,” Orla said—an answer not only to Sorcha’s comment but to her anamacha. “But it’s more important to know what Frangan’s attempt means to us.”

  “That’s indeed the issue, Draoi Orla,” a much deeper male voice intruded, and both Sorcha and Orla started at the sound. They rose quickly to their feet, Sorcha curtsying deeply.

  “Ceanndraoi Greum, a good day to you,” she said, grabbing her own bowl as well as Orla’s mostly full one. “I’ll just take these to the kitchens. Excuse me.”

  She left with a glance at Orla and a shrug. Greum stood silently, watching, until Sorcha was gone. Orla waved a hand toward Sorcha’s chair. “Would you like to sit, Ceanndraoi?”

  An inarticulate grunt was her answer, but Greum set his staff against the table and pulled out the chair. He sat, folding his hands together on the wood. She could see the large red-orange blotches that patterned the man’s hands to the wrists. She thought they looked like the scars of old burns. His anamacha—which the other draoi had told her was named Dòrn, or Fist—hovered near him in the hallway outside the alcove.

  “After Voada left Onglse with Ceannàrd Maol,” he began, “I was afraid that the island and Bàn Cill would fall. Your mam was the strongest of the draoi except perhaps for myself, and even then it was mostly her inexperience that held her back. The potential your mother held with the Moonshadow . . .” Greum shook his head even as he glanced at Orla’s anamacha, his fingers tightening against each other on the table. “When she left, I didn’t know if we could hold back Commander Savas without her and Maol. And the truth is that I don’t believe we would have if Savas hadn’t taken his army south in order to deal with your mother.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Ceanndraoi?”

  Greum pursed his lips as if tasting something sour. “I’ve received communications from the south. From Savur. Draoi Frangan’s actions against Emperor Pashtuk have reminded the Mundoa that the Cateni are still an active threat, even below the Meadham. My fear is that Savas will be sent to finish what he began when your mother came here. And we can’t afford to make the same mistake again.”

  “You’re telling me not to do what my mother did and abandon Onglse? Ceanndraoi, I’m hardly as experienced at handling the Moonshadow’s anamacha as my mother was, and I’ve never been in battle, so—”

  His hands lifted, then slammed back down on the table. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “Back then . . .” He stopped, the red-tinged fingers of his right hand prowling his gray-specked dark beard. “Back then,” he continued more quietly, “your mother insisted that it was a mistake for us to think only of Onglse. She wanted us to take our strongest and best draoi, go to the clans and their àrds, and gather up an army of the north to take south. She said that if we did that, the south would rise up with us and we could drive the Mundoa back over the sea from whence they came. I didn’t listen to her then. I thought her ideas foolish. But she left and did exactly as she’d told us we should do, and she nearly defeated them. Now . . .”

  He gave a long sigh, his shoulders sagging, and Orla realized
again just how old Greum was, the years sitting heavily on his shoulders. The Moonshadow’s anamacha had drifted close to her again, and she felt their cold and the whisper of their many-throated voice.

 

  Orla tried to ignore the interior voices. “And now?” she prompted Greum.

  She thought he might not answer. Then his head lifted, and his dark stare impaled her. “Voada very nearly succeeded all on her own, and I’ve come to realize I made a mistake with her. Had I listened, had I followed her suggestion, I believe her vision might have been fulfilled—with all the draoi behind her and all the clan warriors. But I stayed here even after Savas abandoned the siege. I, along with the draoi and warriors I commanded, did nothing while she battled Savas and his army in Albann Deas, while your mother and Ceannàrd Maol were taking the old Mundoan capital and removing the Great-Voice there. I have to wonder: had I not done that, had I listened to Voada, perhaps your mother would still be alive, and perhaps all of Albann would belong to the Cateni again.”

 

  Orla’s eyes narrowed against his stare. “You’re saying that you want to attack the Mundoa now?”

  “I’m saying that I think that’s what Voada would be telling me if she were here. Last time I listened to my own pride. This time . . . I wonder what your mam would be telling you.”

 

  “Ceanndraoi, you told me that I shouldn’t call on my mam, just as I shouldn’t call on the Moonshadow. Ceiteag warned me against that too. I’ve heard Mam’s voice, but it’s lost among all the others.”