Grudgebearer Page 6

  The Vael male met Wylant’s gaze with unblinking ruby-colored eyes seemingly possessed of no pupils or sclera, just glittering globes of uniform color. “Hello, kholster Wylant,” he said warmly. “I’m Tranduvallu. You may call me Tran, if you like. How can the Vael be of assistance to the Aiannai?”

  Wylant had seen Vael males before. Where the Vael females had been made to appeal to the Aern and Eldrennai as idealized sexual objects, the Vael males were different, appealing to the Vael females’ sense of the ideal male, lending most of them a distinct similarity to the first one hundred Aern.

  Tran, in particular, bore such a resemblance to Vander beneath all the bark and despite the ears that it gave Wylant pause. Uled had never intended that there be male Vael, just as he had intended no female Aern exist. She wondered for the umpteenth time whether Xalistan, the god of the hunt, Gromma, the goddess of nature, Jun, the builder, or Torgrimm himself had arranged their dual-genderedness against all intentions. And why? Was it just a game to the god or goddess involved, or did they simply object to a race that could not breed with itself? However it had happened, his presence threw her off. Vael protected their menfolk even more fiercely than the Aern protected their daughters. . . . What was he doing out here?

  “What’s wrong with it?” Roc asked too loudly, shocking Wylant out of her reverie.

  “Roc!” Mazik thumped him on the back of the head before Wylant had the chance.

  “Not all Vael choose to strip their bark,” Tran answered with a smile. “Any more than we all choose to score or prune our dental ridges so they appear more like teeth. I strip my bark in summer sometimes, but not always. Think of it like shaving off a beard, if that helps.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course,” Roc fumbled.

  “I need to speak with Queen Kari,” Wylant said. “It’s about the Zaur. And we need to discuss the impending Conjunction.”

  “You may enter, of course,” Tran said. “You are welcome in The Parliament of Ages, kholster Wylant, and always shall be as long as you are Aiannai.”

  “General,” Hira corrected, looking lost even as he spoke, as if he knew he shouldn’t have spoken but could not stop himself. “She is not an Aern.”

  “Of course she is,” Tran said matter-of-factly, waving away all thoughts to the contrary with a dismissive air. “By marriage. Her Sidearms, of course, may not enter.”

  “Why not?” Roc blurted.

  “Shall we recite the names of your victims, mighty Roc?” Tran’s eyes narrowed. “Your reputations precede you, Sidearms. It has been many years since a recitation has been needed, but the names have not been lost even if none alive recall the specific acts you committed.”

  “Kam may enter,” Arri said, still hidden by the forest. “If he swears himself an Aiannai and foreswears his Eldrennai heritage. I have no authority to grant him scars to wear in the manner of kholster Wylant, but he has no list of names to face, no litany.”

  “And he can’t be grabby,” Malli put in. “Don’t forget that. I’m not walking around wearing a samir over my face just because some dumb stump-eared male can’t control himself.”

  “I know Vael are supposed to be supernaturally attractive to the Eldrennai,” Kam blustered, “but—”

  Malli stepped out of the forest. A scent like royal garden roses filled Wylant’s nostrils. Uled had once explained to her the effect Vael had on Eldrennai had as much to do with scent as it did their appearance. Small, lithe, and ample bosomed, Malli wore tight doeskin leggings which stopped at mid-calf, exposing the curve of her shapely leg and silvery birch-bark–colored skin. Her heavily beaded top was equally form fitting, even though it covered the skin from the top of her neck to her wrists.

  Short purple shoots adorned her head, a crown of almost hair, like some cross between orchid petals and actual hair. Lips tinted that same purple hue quirked into a smile, revealing carefully pruned dental ridges that looked very much like actual teeth.

  “Hi, Kam,” Malli purred.

  Kam’s response was an animal grunt which Wylant assumed to have been intended as a greeting.

  “Don’t shoot this one in the knee, okay, Molls?” Tran said softly.

  “Can you talk, Kam?” Wylant asked.

  “I . . . uh . . . I,” was his only immediate reply, broken up by laughter from Frip, Frindo, and Ponnod. Kam seemed not to notice, lost in the deep violet pools of Malli’s eyes.

  “It’s almost not fair for a creature that enchanting to be the first flower girl the boy’s ever seen,” Hira said breathily.

  “So that’s settled then,” Wylant snapped. “The Sidearms will NOT be joining me in The Parliament of Ages. Camp north of Porthost and don’t annoy the locals. It’s a direct order and disobeying it may risk us all. Understood?”

  “Yes, General,” Mazik and the others (except for the speechless Kam) answered at once.

  Wylant shot a careful glance from Mazik to Kam and then to Malli. When she, Tran, and the other Vael turned to leave, Mazik and Hira were already at the young Eldrennai’s sides, holding him back from chasing after the departing Vael.

  “Wait!” he shouted as Malli vanished into the forest. “Wait!”

  Wylant clenched her fists and sighed.

  “At least he didn’t actually make a grab for her,” Tran said, moving alongside Wylant.

  “I suppose.” Wylant allowed. It had been so long since Wylant had set foot in the ancient forest, she’d forgotten how wonderful it was. Tran and Malli were plainly visible to her, but she could sense other Vael around her in the forest even though she could not quite spot them. “How many?”

  “Guards?” Tran asked. He grinned broadly. “Thirty. I’m Taking Root soon, so they are all keeping a special eye on me until I find the right spot. Queen Kari wants an outpost close to Porthost and I’ve always enjoyed human watching, so when I felt the time coming upon me, I offered to do it.”

  Wylant shook her head again.

  “So that would be Prince Tranduvallu, then?”

  “Only royal males can become the roots of a home tree,” Tran answered. “So what was it you wanted to speak with Mother about?”

  “The Zaur.” Wylant had spotted five other Vael so far, moving in the branches of the surrounding trees. “Maybe it’s nothing, but I’ve been sensing them on and off for years and it’s getting worse. I want her to keep an extra eye out. I’d also like to meet the Vael representative to the Conjunction.” Wylant suppressed a “ha” as she spotted another six Vael in quick succession.

  “Kholster Wylant comes to the Parliament worried about the Zaur.” Tran almost clapped his hands together in utter delight. “Who would have thought I’d be lucky enough to see such a thing while still in my mobility?”

  Who indeed? Wylant thought to herself. And am I really that predictable?

  “You’ll like the choice of representatives, too,” Tran continued, “but I’m unsure you’ll learn much. They are still quite young.”

  “How young?”

  Tran stopped and gazed at her, his dark, impassive eyes turning serious. “This crop will be one week old tomorrow.”

  Wylant cursed, but pressed on.

  CHAPTER 8

  AERN TEASING

  Breemson, the magistrate, failed to alleviate any of Conwrath’s fears. He’d only met the man a few times, usually very briefly at family events. Somehow Conwrath had never realized the man was this . . . incompetent. Or was it just dealing with the Aern that put him off? It flustered many men, dealing with people who would happily eat someone to whom they’d just been speaking.

  Maybe he’ll get his feet under him soon. The captain watched as the man fretted with his robes and sucked his teeth. A magistrate and a God Speaker for Shidarva. . . . The goddess of justice and retribution seemed to Conwrath to be a hands-on sort of goddess, giving her most ardent followers fair value for their worship, but God Speakers, particularly hers, with the image of their pale blonde goddess tattooed across their bodies: her face inset within the boundaries over t
heir face, her chest over their chest, and so on . . . the thought sent a cold chill up the captain’s back and gave him the flesh crawls.

  Her blue eyes stared out at him below Breemson’s own. Thankfully, they were inanimate for the moment. If the goddess herself were looking on, it was from the spirit realm, as was only right and suitable for a god. Conwrath looked away.

  Japesh sat on a gilded wooden stool near the door of the magistrate’s office, a look of practiced neutrality fixed as firmly across his features as other men might don a helm. His eyes held a different message: Say the word, Captain, and I’ll gut this one. God Speaker or no. Surely your wife can’t be too mad. And if he’s supposed to live, his goddess will save him then, won’t she?

  A study in self-importance, Breemson’s office spoke as loudly to the man’s stubborn pride as his own offended reaction to the presence of the Grudgebearers in his city. What wasn’t gilded was lacquered. Nothing was local except for the door itself. If Conwrath guessed correctly, the magistrate’s desk was made from purpleheart wood, which had to have been hauled all the way from Castleguard in Upper Barrone.

  Conwrath amused himself by trying to estimate the shipping costs for the item itself as well as for strictly the materials necessary. The Dwarves preferred locally sourced materials and placed prohibitive taxes on those transporting construction materials across the intercontinental Junland Bridge, which would have been the fastest way to get the desk from the Upper continent to the Lower one. The tariffs alone to get the cursed thing across the length of Barrony . . . Conwrath suspected the goddess had not demanded such expenses be incurred.

  “Why do they want to see me about it?” Breemson hissed. “It’s not my fault we didn’t have the correct instructions! Shidarva judge me now if I’ve angered them deliberately.”

  “Magistrate.” Conwrath tried not to sound too condescending. “The Grudgers aren’t angry with anyone. They—”

  “Aren’t angry? They killed and ate half the trade delegation!” Breemson shrieked. “And then they dare to come to my doorstep to threaten me.”

  Conwrath didn’t like the inflection on that “dare” or the “me.” Indignation never sat well with an Aern.

  “I believe Kholster is approaching you in an open, honest manner . . . hoping to . . . ah—”

  “Clear up any further misunderstoodings,” Japesh added helpfully.

  “Misunderstandings?” Breemson squawked as he bounded out of his chair. Conwrath winced at the volume. The Aern had particularly good hearing. What, he wondered, were the odds that Kholster and every one of his Aern could hear every word they were saying, even from out in the audience chamber? “I suppose having the Long Speakers withhold news of his arrival was meant as a sign of openness and honesty then? I assume I misunderstood that, too?”

  “Cousin.” Conwrath began a different tack. “This is easy. I know the Aern seem backward and savage from your side of the battle, but they’re knife-to-the-chest sort of people. Never a knife in the dark. If they want to kill you, they’ll tell you that’s what they intend to do—”

  “They don’t get sneaky until after they’ve put words against you,” Japesh said.

  “Against me how?” Breemson froze.

  All three of them turned to the door at the sound of a commotion outside in the magisterial arena. Conwrath thought he heard the tail end of what might have been the word “unconscious” followed by a clang, a thump, and the sound of a body hitting the door and sliding to the ground.

  “Generally,” Kholster said, as he opened the door and stepped over the unconscious guard who had been posted at it, “I shout them with thunderous volume at the offending party, in front of many witnesses.” He frowned at Breemson, and Conwrath wondered what the pudgy official with his sweat-stained robes and holy tattoos must look like to the Aern.

  Then he knew. Aern tended to make food comparisons and . . . yes, pork, like as not. He could halfway see it himself. He didn’t like to guess what kind of meat he seemed to the Aern. Probably pork for himself, too.

  “You have my solemn oath, that, unless forced to fight in self-defense, or in trial by combat in the eyes of Shidarva in accordance to your laws—which, I should add, I would not appreciate—neither I nor my fellow Hundreds will attack you with our warpicks. Does that comfort you?”

  It shouldn’t, Conwrath mused. It wouldn’t assure me one bit. But he watched the magistrate relax slightly. “And Aern always keep their word.”

  “Or they are no longer Aern,” Kholster said perhaps a bit more acidly than he’d intended.

  “Very well.” Breemson regained his composure, smoothing his robes and wiping sweat from his brow with a hand towel. “You understand my need for assurances, of course?”

  “No,” Kholster answered with a wolf-like smile. “But you have them nonetheless.”

  CHAPTER 9

  GOD SPEAKER

  What do you think of the new magistrate? Vander thought at Kholster as he reentered the audience chamber. It had changed very little since the last time Kholster had seen it. The cushions covering the tiered rows of brick benches provided for the audience had been reupholstered in a dark-purple fabric Kholster couldn’t identify. Some over-soft cloth that his fingers yearned to touch. No doubt it wouldn’t hold up well.

  Overhead, a tent-like awning stretched over the entire chamber, ablating the sun’s fierceness. It depicted the goddess Shidarva in all her glory, standing in judgment over petitioners. She sat upon a simple stool. Before her, a mighty-looking warrior wielding a blue sword was shown being defeated by a small child plying a blade matching in size and shape but ablaze with blue flames. It was good work and well maintained. Kholster still didn’t understand why they didn’t just call the place a holy arena.

  Kholster saw Magistrate Breemson entering the chamber behind him, from Vander’s perspective. The man looked a prize hog walking on its hind legs in a circus. Pork, Kholster thought back. There’s a lot of meat on his bones, too. He could easily feed two of us.

  The guards who had been wise enough to clear out of Kholster’s way when he’d demanded entry to the magistrate’s inner chamber stood up straight, abandoning their unconscious comrade as the magistrate moved past them to the raised dais in the center of the chamber and approached upon the stool at its center. A stool which, Kholster noted, looked far more comfortable and ornate than the one depicted in the image which overlooked the proceedings. Breemson mounted the backless stool and cleared his throat, clearly waiting for Kholster to resume his seat in the place of waiting, exchanging an incomprehensible look with a Long Speaker and her two Long Arms seated in a recessed overlook to watch over the proceedings.

  He could at that, Vander thought back from his seat along the curved wall of the arena with the other Aern and the handful of citizens waiting to have their cases heard by the magistrate, those who hadn’t fled the chamber immediately upon the Aern’s entry. I’m told some of the Elevens Rae’en kholstered tasted their meat cooked.

  And? Kholster put his hand on his Overwatch’s shoulder as he took his place next to him, standing rather than sitting, and set himself at the ready, waiting the magistrate’s pleasure. Theoretically, old business should come first. But Kholster found that most magistrates cut straight to the big game and dealt with the Aern. Unless they felt the need to try to demonstrate their authority . . .

  They say the fat tastes better when it sizzles, but that the meat shrinks down, Vander answered, watching the magistrate undo the bundle of documents contained within the official satchel next to his chair.

  Not the first time I’ve heard that, Kholster thought back. Good reason not to cook it.

  You think he’s going to make us wait? Vander thought.

  I’d make battle plans around it.

  Would you wager naming rights on it?

  I never wager naming rights.

  “Farmer Aimes?” The magistrate read from the official slate he’d withdrawn from the satchel. Kholster thought he did a fair job of
pretending not to watch for a reaction out of the corner of his eye. Kholster twisted his chin to his left shoulder and then his right, partially to stretch his neck muscles, but mostly to see the human flinch.

  See? Vander chided. You would have won. You have always been such a sword in the sheath.

  I thought the expression was pick in the shed.

  Farmer Aimes stepped forward, hesitantly, looking to the Aern as if seeking pardon or permission. Giving him both, Kholster waved the man forward and inclined his head permissively. Relieved, the short, squat man in often-patched overalls advanced to stand before the dais. Breemson mentioned some vague thing or other about the complaint, and Aimes dissembled further. Kholster had stopped paying attention by then. Something about cows.

  The humans say something about a stick . . .

  What? he thought back at Vander. Instead of sword in the sheath? Stick in the eye?

  Something like that.

  Maker? Bloodmane’s echoing thoughts intoned.

  Kholster, old friend, Kholster corrected automatically. Just Kholster will be fine.

  Of course, Maker. Scout and his crew have made it to the Shattered Plain. It is patrolled by crystal guardians, and the Eldrennai have built a wall around it. There are warning signs.

  Show me. Closing his eyes to see through Bloodmane’s, Kholster experienced a momentary sense of dismay as his viewpoint warped and refocused to reveal the canted perspective of Scout, Okkust’s armor. Plains once covered in myr grass, its purple plumes stirred by gentle breezes, had become a jumble of random craters and cracked earth, great shards of rock thrusting up high in one spot with the ground dropping away into deep rents in others. Abandoned, at the center of the devastation, Fort Sunder stood an empty carcass of stone which had once been home to over a million Aernese troops.